


the walker

by myownremedy



Series: homo, fuge [2]
Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Eventual Happy Ending, Faustian Bargain, Grey Aromantic Character, Identity Porn, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soul Selling, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris falls in love, makes a friend, kills someone, stops being so pathetic and figures out what he wants in life. In this life, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: in addition to graphic depictions of violence, there is mild gore, religious blasphemy, death/murder of a minor character, brief discussion of panic attacks, and discussion of a character's suicide attempt that happened in the previous fic. there is also a discussion of a sexual assault that happened to a character's family member.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So! This is it. It finally happened.  
> First and foremost, Alex must be thanked. She is many things, all of them wonderful, and put up with me whining about this story to her for _over a year_.  
>  Thank you to Deer for advising me re: coffee. Thank you to Maya and Kelsey for talking to me about San Francisco and New York respectively Thank you to my tlist for telling me about their hangovers...you guys rock! Thank you to Deanna for looking this over real quick!  
> BIG special shout out to my friend Steph's dad for being my expert on all things New York and Wallstreet. Couldn't have written this without him!  
> Lastly but most importantly: thanks to everyone that read Homo Fuge and liked it and said they'd read a sequel. If Homo, Fuge was "All Too Well" by Taylor Swift then this is "Treacherous"; a completely different type of fic. I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> You can find faceclaims in the endnotes.  
>  **[Here is the official fanmix - I recommend you listen to it while you read: [x]!!](https://8tracks.com/myownremedy/the-walker)**
> 
> DISCLAIMER: absolutely none of this is real; it is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own what inspired this work (Doctor Faustus, The Social Network), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Please do not show to anyone involved in the movie or put this up on another site such as Goodreads or Wattpad. Thank you.

“Monsters exist because they are part of the divine plan, and in the horrible features of those same monsters the power of the creator is revealed.”

\-- Umberto Eco, _The Name of the Rose_

 

_Halloween, 2003_

 

Boston during Halloween is the perfect place to commit a murder. Most big cities are, but Boston is something else entirely, a maze of twisting streets that have steadily descended into something unrecognizable.

(Chris comes back every forty years or so, trading names and accents but never his face, Halloween looming on the calendar. In a sense, he started here. He wonders if he will end here.)

Chris is not the only one that has noticed this. Tan calls as he is peeling his gloves off and Chris abandons this errand in favor of picking up the phone.

“Hello.” Chris says, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as he starts his car.

“ _Cristoforo,”_ Tan says. An emptiness, buried between layers of bone and muscle, blinks into life.

“Mia Signora,” Chris says, draping one hand over the steering wheel.

_“Are you done with your errand?”_

“Yes.” Chris replies, leaning against the leather seat. “Have you need of me?”

_“Yes. Don’t change, just come – to Hopkinton.”_ Tan orders, and hangs up.

 

The little girl waiting on a street corner is as blond and blue eyed as Chris himself. She turns to stare at him as he drives towards her, eyes flashing yellow in the headlights. Chris doesn’t need to see that or for her to hold her fist extended with her thumb up in a parody of the hitchhiker’s sign to know its Tan.

She’s always recognizable to humans, hungry and creeping and always there.

(He had said that to her once, more than fifty years ago in a diner in New York City, and Tan had smiled at him with that hungry mouth, eyelashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks.

“They always know I’m coming for them,” Tan had told him, sipping her milkshake. “Even if they pretend not to believe in me, they always know.” Her eyes, green then, had found his, and she had smirked. “Right?”

Chris had looked away.)

Chris pulls over and rolls down his window. “Are you lost, little girl?”

“Trick or treat?” Tan asks, peering into his car, then laughs. “Get out of the damn car.”

He rolls the window back up and parks, slipping his policeman’s cap onto his head as he gets out and locks the door.

“I like your costume,” he tells her, indicating the red devil’s horns poking up through her blond hair. “Do you have a tail, too?”

“Yes,” Tan says, twirling in her sparkly red dress. The tail, attached to the dress, swung out limply. “I thought it was clever.”

“Very. No one will suspect.”

Tan wrinkles her nose at him. “Ha, ha. C’mon, I want some candy.”

 

At the fourth house they visit, the gentlemen handing out candy doesn’t have a soul.

“Hello!” He greets them cheerfully, prodding his bifocals higher up his nose with one gnarled hand. “Oh my, your policeman’s costume looks so realistic!”

Chris puffs out his chest in pride. “Thank you,” he says, southern accent of Chris Hughes gone, a vague Bostonian accent in its place. “I always wanted to be a policeman when I was younger.”

“And look at you!” The man exclaims over Tan as she paws through his candy basket. “Your costume is so pretty.”

“Tan,” Chris says, and the man’s face drains of color. Chris can see the gaping hole where his soul should be, barely constrained by his ribs – for a moment he can even see the man’s thoughts, twisting wildly out of his skull. “Don’t take all of the candy.”

Tan glances back at him guilty, playing along. “Sorry.”

“T-Tan?” The man repeats, stammering. “That’s – an unusual name.”

“Tanner,” Chris says, smiling crookedly. “Our mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh,” the man swallows. He smiles at Tan again. “Well, Tan, my name’s Michael. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Tan smiles up at him, tiny and angelic. “Hi,” she says shyly. “That’s my brother, Chris.”

“Have a good night, you two,” Michael instructs, depositing an extra snickers bar in Tan’s basket. “Be safe.”

“You too,” Chris replies, tipping his hat at him, and then he takes Tan’s offered hand and escorts her down to the sidewalk.

“What time is it?” Tan asks, pausing under a streetlamp to rummage around in her basket.

Chris checks his watch. “About 8:30. Way past your bedtime.”

“Here,” Tan offers him a king sized Butterfinger. Chris slips it into his free pocket. What time do you think Michael goes to bed?”

“So it is him.” Tan keeps rummaging around in her basket. “What was it this time?”

“A grandchild,” Tan says, tucking a strand of blond hair behind the curve of one ear. “A very nice reason to sell your soul, I think.”  
“How old’s the kid?”

“Two.” Tan holds up an Airhead with delight. “I let him have more time with his grandson than he asked.”

“Does he know his soul isn’t enough, to secure someone’s life?” Chris asks, because the only bargain he knows is his own, and he can’t imagine loving someone enough to trade his soul and life for theirs.

Tan looks up at him and bares her teeth in something like a smile. “He knows. He’s forgotten, maybe – but he knew.”

She starts to walk again, taking Chris’ hand in her tiny one.

“If you want him alone, if you want the neighborhood dead – we’ll have to wait till one a.m., just to be safe.”

“Is that why you stole a real policeman’s uniform to carry out your errand in?” Tan asks, glancing up at him. “To be safe?” She shrugs. “You needn’t worry – no one’s going to be looking for you.”

“I don’t worry.” Chris tells her quietly.

Tan hums. “You were cruel back there.” She tells him as they round a corner, more houses with tacky Halloween decorations coming into view. “Slipping my name into conversation. Did you let your rabbits squirm in your grasp before you killed them, back in Sondrio?”

Chris looks at her blankly. “No,” he says.

“Why not?” Tan asks as they start up the garden path of the nearest house.

“Back then, I could still die,” Chris tells her, and rings the doorbell.

 

1 a.m. in the suburbs is as moonless and deserted as they could have hoped for. Perhaps, Chris muses as he opens the door – locks are beneath them – not entirely by chance. Tan slips into the house, under his arm, and Chris shuts the door behind them.

They pause in the foyer, Tan’s pale form glowing unnaturally in the dark. The emptiness in Chris’ chest intensifies, ripping him open and apart. Demonic, he follows Tan across the foyer and into the next room – the kitchen. The clocks on the microwave and the oven stop working once they enter the room, the lights blinking and then dying abruptly. The room itself is deserted.

Tan doesn’t even look around, just keeps walking. Chris has never asked about this – about what she knows. If the soulless call to her. If she’s more grim reaper than devil, sometimes.

They find Michael, asleep, on the sofa in the family room. Chris can hear Michael’s wife, asleep upstairs. He glances at the open magazine on the table next to Michael, wonders if he’s waited up for them.

_They always know_ _I’m coming for them,_ Tan says in his memory.

“Michael,” Tan says, girlish and nasty at once. “Wake up.”

Michael has hands curled into fists before his eyes are fully open. He sits up but does not strike, eyes fixed on Tan’s face.

“I thought I recognized you.” His voice echoes into the empty house. “Are you here to kill me?”

“To take you.” Tan corrects, voice sharp enough to have teeth of its own. Chris thinks this is what she must have sounded like when he sold his soul. He can’t remember.

“I need more time.” Michael tells them. The words sound empty, like they are too small to hold all of his belief. “Please, I need –”

“No.” Tan says quietly. The world around her is distorting. Chris wonders if this is how it looks when he changes, when he becomes demonic – too tall and too pale and utterly inhuman.

“Don’t worry.” Tan tells Michael, stepping close and putting one tiny hand on his cheek. “It’ll look like you died of a heart attack. No one will ever know.”

Michael is wordless in the face of this comfort. He stares up at Tan. Her face, with its dark, yawning mouth, is reflected in his eyes.

Chris turns away.

 

After, they let themselves out of Michael’s house and lock the door behind them. Tan, fully human again, leads the way back to Chris’ car. He follows, police cap tucked under one arm.

“Are you old enough to ride in the front seat?” Chris asks as he unlocks the car.

“No idea.” Tan says, getting in anyway. “I want a burger.”

Chris turns the car on and considers. “There’s a McDonalds nearby. I think they have a drive-thru.”

“They all do, nowadays.” Tan says as he pulls away from the curb. Her pumpkin candy bucket is on the floor on the passenger seat, next to his duffel bag. She grabs the duffel and begins to dig through it. “Why the gloves?”

“Fingerprints.” Chris says, peering into the darkness.

“You have two pairs. Latex and leather.” She snorts.

“Leather, for fingerprints. Latex, for DNA.”

“Just use latex.”

“They can extract your fingerprints from those, I read it in a forensic science journal.”

Tan snorts again. She’s still wearing her devil horns. “I guess that’s better than ‘I saw it on CSI.’”

“Dustin watches that sometimes. He always has nightmares, after.” Chris doesn’t think about what Dustin would do if he found out what Chris was. What would happen if Mark or Eduardo found out? How scared they would be, if they could believe it?

He really doesn’t think about it.

“I doubt any human machines could process your DNA, and – are your fingerprints even in the system?”

Chris shrugs. He doesn’t even know if he has real fingerprints. “That’s no reason to get sloppy.” He tells her, flicking on his turn signal.

“You’re so predictable,” Tan tells him affectionately, eyes dancing. “I’m so happy that part of you hasn’t changed.”

 

*

 

Chris gets back to the suite after dinner a few days later, supplies stowed away in a safe house. Dustin and Mark are already there, Dustin drinking even though it’s barely 6 p.m., Mark coding. He’s always coding lately, even more than usual.

“Hey man!” Dustin calls, waving to Chris with the hand not holding his beer. The TV is on; Brian Williams is talking solemnly about the weather. “How was your Halloween party?”

“Wild.” Chris lies, smiling at him. “How was yours?”

“It got broken up by the cops, actually.” Dustin shrugs. “Kind of killed the mood.”

“Wow.” Chris says, flopping down the couch next to Dustin. Now Brian Williams is talking about the wild fires in California. “That sucks.”

“Wardo was at that party too,” Dustin says, staring at the fire on screen. “He got away, I think.” He glances in the direction of Mark’s room. “Mark! Come say hi to Christopher. We haven’t seen him in days!”

“Hi.” Mark calls absently from his room. Dustin rolls his eyes at Chris.

“He’s always like that.” Dustin complains in a faux whisper. “Always _busy_.”

“Shut up, Dustin.” Mark calls.

“But seriously, where have you been?” Dustin demands, poking Chris on the arm. “Did you _meet someone?_ ”

Chris grins at him, finally shedding the last few days. “Straight boys are so curious on Halloween. It’s like they aren’t straight at all.”

“Of course you’ve spent the last 48 hours having wild sex. Of _course_.” Dustin heaves a sigh. “Don’t worry. The Dustinator has game too.”

“Sure.” Chris says. Dustin punches him on the arm.

“Hey.” Dustin says as Brian Williams starts talking about solar flares. “The Ghost struck again.”

“That crazy serial killer?”

“Yeah.” Dustin bobs his head up and down, too long hair flapping slightly. “They found this guy dead in his home yesterday. He was implicated in a case of child abuse but never charged, ‘cause they didn’t have enough evidence.”

Chris shifts. “Maybe he died of natural causes.”

“He was shot in the chest. Police say there are no leads, like every other time. He struck on Halloween, like every other time. He went after some evil abuser or rapist, like every other time.”

“Dustin,” Chris sighs as the news goes to commercial. “Why do you care about this guy?”

“Because it’s _cool_ ,” Dustin insists. “How has he been alive so long? What is his motive? How does he find these people? Who says it’s even a man?”

“Is Dustin ranting about The Ghost again?” Mark calls over the sound of his typing.

“Shut up, Mark!” Dustin calls back.

The typing stops and then Mark emerges, headphones slung around his neck. “It’s not The Ghost.” He says, leaning against the doorway to his room.

“Same M.O.” Dustin sounds exactly like everyone on those CSI shows he watches.

“The first alleged Ghost case happened here in like 1906,” Mark points out, hunching down slightly, like a bird on a wire. “There’s no way he – they – are still around. It’s gotta be an imposter.”

“Maybe it’s a Dred Pirate Roberts situation.” Dustin twists around to face Mark. “Like, it’s passed down somehow. Maybe it’s ‘the family business.’” He is, in Chris’ opinion, overly enthusiastic with the finger quotes.

Mark actually laughs, quiet and bitten off. He’s always held himself so tightly that a laugh could be his unraveling, a way to vent everything wound up inside. “It wasn’t the Ghost. The Ghost isn’t even real.”

“Yes, he is.” Dustin insists, standing up and rounding the couch. “There’s this site – I’ll show you.”

“You aren’t touching my computer.” Mark says, already moving towards it, out of sight. Dustin follows him.

Their bickering almost drowns out the sound of the door swinging open. Chris looks around to see Eduardo enter, face immediately creasing in a smile.

“Chris!” He calls, unzipping his black Northface fleece. “You’re back.”

Chris feels his mouth curve up in a smile without his input or permission. His chest is too small, ribs squeezing his heart and lungs. “I am.”

“I missed you.” Eduardo beams at him as he comes to lean a hip against the back of the couch.

“I missed you too.” Chris leans back to smile up at him. Eduardo seems even taller from this angle, one unbroken line from his hands to his smooth, golden neck. “How was your weekend?”

“It was alright. I was with Dustin and Mark – our party got broken up by the cops.”

“I heard. That’s shitty, I’m sorry.”

“It was scary!” Eduardo’s eyes shine like a hunted thing’s. “I was terrified they were going to catch me. But, I mean – I’m overage. So I didn’t have anything to worry about, really.”

Chris feels himself relax into his smile, breathing easing a little. He always feels like his skin is too tight around Eduardo, like Eduardo will look at him and know everything Chris wants to hide.

“Probably better you weren’t with us.” Eduardo concludes, and glances around. “Where are Mark and Dustin?”

“In Mark’s room, arguing about The Ghost.” Chris says, watching the line of Eduardo’s neck. The way Eduardo’s spine curves towards Mark’s room, like a lone parenthesis.

“The creepy serial killer?” Eduardo looks back at him and wrinkles his nose. “That’s gross.”

“You’re welcome to stay out here until they stop talking about it.” Chris says, sinking deeper into the couch. The local news is on now, the immaculate and terrifying news anchor discussing budget cuts.

“Is that Eduardo?” Dustin calls out.

“It is!” Eduardo calls back, and clasps Chris’ shoulder, fingers curling over the ridge of it. Chris can feel the heat from Eduardo’s skin all the way to his bones. “I should probably go say hello. But I’m glad you’re back.”

Chris wonders if, in the other room, Mark’s spine curves back towards Eduardo; if he’ll ever look up from the screen and see the way Eduardo is looking at him.

Eduardo will never see everything Chris wants to hide because Eduardo will never see anyone but Mark. Even though he was Chris’ friend first; even though Mark, until recently, had a girlfriend. Everything else falls to the wayside.

“Let’s talk later!” Eduardo finally removes his hand. Chris’ skin prickles. “I want to hear all about this wild party.” He calls over his shoulder, already moving towards Mark’s room.

“Yeah.” Chris says, already turning back to the TV. He hears Mark’s terse _Wardo_ , can imagine Eduardo’s answering smile.

He still can’t breathe quite right, like seeing Eduardo caused his lungs and ribs to shift to the left. Like there’s another emptiness there to match the first.

He raises a hand to the place on his shoulder where Eduardo touched him, covers the place with his own hand. Knows Eduardo’s hands dwarf his, that he’s not quite matching it right.

“Chris.” Dustin says. Chris looks around to see Dustin standing at the edge of the couch, watching him. Dustin’s face, usually so expressive, is unreadable. He raises gingery brows and nods at Chris. “Are you good?”

“Yeah.” Chris says, hand dropping from his shoulder. “I’m great.”


	2. prologue

 

_April, 2009_

  
Friday morning. The elevator dings and its doors roll back to reveal Chris’ floor and all of his workers crowding outside his office doors. Inside it, made visible by the glass walls, is an enormous fruit basket. Chris raises his eyebrows and steps out of the elevator.

“Who’s it from? Boyfriend?” Andre asks, his back to the elevator.

“He doesn’t do boyfriends.” Leslie, Chris’ personal assistance, says. “No, it’s got to be a colleague.”

“Okay but what if it’s a hook up?” Jamal asks. Andre and Leslie both make skeptical noises.

“Would a hook up really send him a fruit basket at his place of work?” Andre asks.

“What if he has mad game?” Jamal persists.

“ _He_ is right here.” Chris says dryly and watches them all start, then scatter guiltily. Leslie is the only one that turns to face him, clutching a stack of papers to her chest. Chris rounds the corner of the cubicles, nods at her, and jerks one thumb at the fruit basket.

“What’s the story behind that?” He asks, accepting the files Leslie hands him.

“A delivery boy dropped it off.” Leslie says, brushing back some of her red hair. A flush stains her pale cheeks. “Sir, about what I said –”

“It’s true.” Chris says, opening the first file and skimming it. Ah – a report from accounting. “I don’t do boyfriends. Are we still meeting with Neal and Davies at 10 o’clock?”

“Yes, sir.” Leslie says, following him into his office. “I’ve prepared notes – it’s the second folder.”

“Oh, good.” Chris smiles at her. “Thank you for that.” He moves behind his desk to peer at the fruit basket. It’s a little over the top, and Chris has sent his fair share of fruit baskets while working for Obama’s campaign.

There’s a little envelope attached to the side of the basket. Chris drops the stack of folders on his desk so he can grab the envelope and fish the slip of paper out of it.

_Chris –_

_Thanks for everything._

_Sincerely, E.S._

“What the fuck?!” It slips out before Chris can stop it. Out of the corner of the eye, Chris can see Leslie startle. Has she never heard him swear before? Chris Hughes doesn’t cuss around women, as a general rule, but this – this is –

His phone rings. Chris grabs it. “Hughes.”

“ _Have you seen it yet_?” Tan asks on the other end.

“One second.” Chris says before covering the bottom of the receiver with one hand. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone about this?”

“Of course not.” Leslie says promptly. “Do you want me to give you a fifteen minute warning for the meeting?”

“No, I should be done well before then.” Chris says. Leslie departs and Chris waits for the glass door swing shut behind her before taking his hand away from the phone.

“Hello,” He says into the phone as he sits down. “You mean the giant fruit basket Eduardo sent me?”

Tan laughs in his ear. “ _He mentioned that he owed you one, last year. For convincing Mark’s lawyers not to depose you for the Winklevoss-Narendra lawsuit.”_

“How did he know about that?” Chris asks, distracted.

 _“I think it was easy to figure out.”_ Tan answers. _“Why, is the fruit basket not up to snuff?”_

“No, it’s fine.” Chris answers after a minute. It’s just – after all they’ve been through together, Eduardo sends him a fruit basket?!

He and Eduardo haven’t spoken since Hell. Chris figured it was time to move on, that Eduardo wouldn’t want a reminder of everything that had happened. Maybe he was right and this is Eduardo’s way of saying goodbye.

He wonders if Eduardo sent Mark a fruit basket, too.

 _“You should call him._ ” Tan, like she knows exactly what Chris is thinking. She probably does. _“He misses you._ ”

Chris doesn’t scoff, but it’s a near thing. If Eduardo misses him then he can come visit Chris, it’s not like Chris is hard to find. They even live in the same city now. Besides, he’s been careful about avoiding Eduardo. He doesn’t want to screw it up. “Did you need something?” He asks, not caring if he’s being rude.

 _“Yes.”_ Tan says. Chris waits. “ _Keep your eyes open in Los Angeles.”_

Chris frowns, flipping through Leslie’s notes absentmindedly. “For what?” When Tan doesn’t reply he puts down the notes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tan, even I need more than that.”

 _“No, you don’t.”_ Tan hangs up on him and Chris stares at the receiver for a minute before putting it back. She’s usually far more direct with him, tells him what she wants him to do even if she won’t tell him why. But lately every order has been restrained.

“First a fruit basket, now this.” he says to himself, opening the third file Leslie gave him and flipping through it.

His phone rings again.

 _“_ Hughes.” He says, half hoping it’s Tan again.

 _“Chris! Chriiiiiiis!”_ Dustin crows at him. _“Hang on –”_ He barks something, probably at an intern. _“What’s up, buddy?”_

“Nothing much.” Chris says, then, unable to help himself: “Eduardo sent me a fruit basket.”

 _“A fruit basket?”_ Chris pictures Dustin’s face, can almost see Dustin’s raised eyebrows. _“Why? Wait – how swanky was it?”_

Chris eyes the thing again, noting the artfully arranged pears and the chocolates tucked into the middle of the basket, next to fruit preserves and some pretzels. “Very.” He wants to throw the thing out the fucking window. “There are even chocolates.”

 _“I’m jealous.”_ Dustin says, because he absolutely lives for sugar. _“I haven’t gotten a fancy fruit basket.”_

“I have a meeting in LA in about three days, maybe I’ll bring it with me and you can have it.”

“ _That’s why I was calling! You’re coming to visit, right?”_

“Yeah, my schedule is pretty free afterwards so I figured I’d stop by.”

 _“It’s okay, you can admit you’ve missed me_ ,” Dustin says cheerfully. _“Are you flying out today?”_

“No,” Chris says, pulling up his flight schedule on his computer. “I’m flying out tomorrow and my meeting is on Monday. I don’t know for sure when I’ll be down in LA, so I wanted to make sure you’re mostly free for next week.”

 _“Like I have a life outside of here,”_ Dustin snorts. “ _Neither does Mark, of course. When are you heading back?”_

“Friday.” Chris pulls up his calendar, hoping for an indicator of when and where he’s supposed to be ‘keeping his eyes open.’ “Honestly, I think my assistant wants me to stay longer. She thinks I’m a workaholic.”

“ _You are!”_ Dustin laughs.

“Only way to get ahead. Listen, I have to go, I have a meeting in –” He checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll text you when I know more, okay?”

 _“Can’t wait!”_ Dustin says, because age has not taken enthusiasm from him, and disconnects.

 

*

 

The meeting in LA turns into a series of negotiations. Chris’ job with a venture capital firm means he helps decide what start ups to invest in. Because of Facebook, people are generally willing to trust his opinion. Sometimes he wonders if Tan has him here because one day down the line he’s going to run into a start up she wants, but he knows better. Facebook is what she’d been after; it’s what every side was after.

But there’s going to be a new Facebook, a new start up that revolutionizes something about the human experience, communication or friendship or medicine or business, _something_ that both sides will get involved with.

Chris doesn’t think this start up, which deals with traveling, is it. But it’s a good idea, so by Wednesday morning he’s handing over a check to the start up before heading to the nearest coffee shop.

The line is at least ten people long but the air conditioning makes it bearable. Chris has lived all over the world, in almost every climate, but he’s never particularly enjoyed the heat.

He orders, pays, and is checking his email on his blackberry while he waits when he realizes he’s being watched.

 _Keep your eyes open_ , Tan had said. For who, or what?

Chris frowns down at his phone, debating the merits of subtlety with the fact there are enough humans here, enough _witnesses_ , for him to get away with looking around blatantly. In the end, subtly wins and he pretends he hasn’t noticed, reads an email from Jamal before pocketing his phone and looking up.

There’s a blond woman in the back of the shop watching him. Chris glances at her and smiles as their eyes meet; she immediately looks away. Maybe she recognizes him and it’s nothing. Chris doubts it.

Chris grabs his latte before making his way over to her, nodding and smiling when she realizes what he’s doing.

“Hi there.” He says when he’s next to her, because right now he’s Chris Hughes, mild mannered and polite. “Chris Hughes. Nice to meet you.”

“Officer Amy Ritter.” She says, sticking her hand out for him to shake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, I just recognized you. Facebook, right?”

“That’s right.” Chris says, shaking her hand. “Officer?”

“Police officer.” Amy smiles politely.

“Ah.” Chris spares a thought for Tan and what she wants him to do, another for the rest of the people in the shop. In the end, he takes out a pen and scrawls his cell phone number on the back of one of his business cards before pressing the card into Amy’s hand. She takes it automatically. “You’ll be needing this, I think.”

“I don’t –” Amy looks down at the card. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” Chris says, sipping his latte. When Amy just stares down at his card, perplexed, he steps closer. “Can’t you recognize one of your own?”

Amy’s head jerks up. There’s a hole where her soul is supposed to be, a hole gaping a little wider, a little deeper than most. She’s definitely what Tan wanted him to look for.

Ordinarily Chris would take his leave; she has his number, she’ll call if she needs to. But something about this doesn’t sit right with him.

“How did you recognize me?” He asks. It’s one thing if Tan told her to look for him, but if she didn’t, that means…

“I told you, Facebook –” Amy breaks off when Chris holds up a hand. “I can see it.” She says, much quieter this time. “I can see the hole.”

“Interesting.” Chris says. He wonders, sometimes, what it looks like on him. A mirror won’t show him – he’s tried.

“What are you?” Amy asks, seizing control of the conversation. “You feel like Tan, but less.”

Tan, but less. Chris smiles. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait –”

“You have my card.” Chris says, stopping with his back to Amy, trusting her not to shoot him.

She doesn’t say anything, so he starts walking again. His hotel is ten blocks away, but after a series of meetings he could use a walk.

He finds Tan loitering on the corner of the fifth block. She’s in what he thinks is her new favorite form: a tall, thin black woman with close-cropped hair and a tattoo on one arm. Today she’s in a sundress and sandals, purse in one hand and phone in the other.

She doesn’t say anything to him until he pauses next to her.

“I met your girl.” Chris says, offering his arm.

“Really.” Tan doesn’t bother acting surprised. “Did you like her?” She asks, taking his arm.

“No.” Chris frowns. “How long has it been?”

“Eleven months.”

“Didn’t know someone could pick it up that fast.” Chris mutters into his latte. “Guess some people are just meant to find you.”

“Most people think _I_ find _them_.” Tan laughs and Chris shivers. “You’ve always had a unique way of looking at things.”

Chris scowls at her. “What did she sell it for, anyway?”

“Justice.” Tan glances at him, her hungry mouth still curved in a smile.

“That’s a bit of a broad concept.” Chris says as they wait for the light to change.

“I thought you might say that.” Tan steals his latte, the way Dustin would. Chris lets her. “A man hurt her sister and was going to get away with it. The police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do anything, so she decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“Very noble of her.” Chris says, because it is. Because the only better reason he’s ever heard is _I wanted a friend_.

Tan looks at him for a minute, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. She probably does. “Still?” She asks as the light changes. She starts walking, tugging him forward. “Just call him. He misses you.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Chris snaps. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Probably.” Tan throws his latte into a garbage can as they pass it. “Tell me more about Amy.”

“She could sense me.” Chris says. When Tan doesn’t say anything else he continues. “I gave her my card. I thought that might be what you wanted me to do.” Chris doesn’t shrug, because it’s rude, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Up ahead his hotel gleams in the noon sun.

“I see.” Tan smiles at him. “I’m sure she’ll call if she needs anything.”

“I’m not her keeper.” Chris warns. When Tan doesn’t say anything, he sighs. “She’s important, isn’t she?”

“Maybe.” Chris has been with Tan long enough to know that she means ‘yes’ whenever she goes vague. Maybe that’s why she does it.

“She’s dangerous.” Chris feels like he’s repeating himself.

“Yes, I know.” Tan says. They pause a block away from his hotel. “Have a good visit with Mark and Dustin.”

Chris wrinkles his nose. “Thanks.”

Tan laughs and kisses him on the forehead. It burns enough to make him tear up. He bites his lip hard enough to feel blood, blinking furiously, and when his eyes clear she’s gone.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris mutters, running careful fingers over his forehead. There’s no mark. Scowling, he heads towards his hotel. He still has to check out, get lunch, rent a car, and drive to San Francisco; he doesn’t have time for this.

 

Los Angeles to San Francisco is a hell of a fucking drive, long and slightly depressing. Traffic wise, it’s not that bad until 4:30, and from then on Chris spends more time drumming on the steering wheel than actually driving.

Dustin calls when Chris is forty-five minutes away.

 _“Are you still coming?”_ he asks. “ _Mark has his sad face on.”_

Chris can distinctly hear a ‘ _Shut up, Dustin’_ in the background.

“My last meeting ran long,” Chris lies, flipping off the asshole driver that is pressuring him to move over and make room when there _isn’t any_. “And I decided to drive up rather than fly.”

 _“Hate that drive._ ” Dustin hums. _“Dinner tonight? Or will you be too tired?”_

“Hmmm,” Chris taps the brakes as the asshole driver finally manages to merge. “By dinner do you mean dinner in a restaurant or do you mean pizza and beer at Mark’s house?”

 _“The latter.”_ Dustin says cheerfully. He texts like a five year old but sometimes he says stuff in conversation that makes Chris remember they’re all adults. “ _Duh._ ”

“I’m maybe forty minutes away.” Chris says. “I can check into my hotel whenever so, should I just meet you at Mark’s?”

 _“Yeah.”_ Dustin answers. There’s the muffled sound of scuffling, like Dustin is physically dragging Mark away from his desk. That’s probably exactly what’s happening.

 _“Dustin – I am on the phone!”_ Chris hears Mark snarl.

“Who is Mark talking too?” Chris asks, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder so he can readjust his sunglasses.

 _“Eduardo.”_ Dustin says cheerfully. _“They’ve started talking again, since the whole coma business.”_

Chris masterfully turns his stupid, pained exhale into a cough. _“_ Oh, good.” He manages. Then, unable to resist: “Tell Mark to tell Eduardo I say hi!”

 _“Mark,”_ Dustin says, clearly not talking to Chris but too much of an animal to drag his mouth away from the phone, _“Tell Eduardo hi from Chris._ ”

 _“Hang on –”_ Chris hears Mark say. Then: _“Tell Chris to pick up his fucking phone and talk to Eduardo himself, I’m not a messaging service.”_

 _“No can do, Chris is talking to meeeee,”_ Dustin sing-songs the last word. “ _But seriously, Mark – Mark? We need to go home so we can order pizza so Chris doesn’t kill us in food induced rage when he gets here._ ”

“I’m going to hang up now.” Chris tells Dustin. “I’ll see you soon.”

Dustin and Mark are still bickering when he presses ‘end’ on the call.

 

There is pizza by the time Chris gets there, somehow – maybe Dustin bribed the delivery guy. Chris can smell it as he unlocks the door, toeing off his shoes before wandering into the living room. Mark and Dustin are eating pizza and arguing over which movie Chris would like best – something about _The Shawshank Redemption_ versus _Hercules_.

“Chriiiiiiisssss!” Dustin yells, vaulting over the back of the couch to hug him. He manages it holding two slices of pizza in one hand, a skill Chris has always been impressed by. Chris’ arms come up automatically to enfold Dustin, and then he hugs Dustin close, breathing in the smell of mint and sweat and _Dustin._ He can _feel_ himself relaxing, becoming more and more Chris Hughes, the thoughts of Tan and her games falling away.

“Missed you,” Dustin says into his neck and Chris sighs, tugging him just a little bit closer.

“Missed you too.” He admits quietly, because he’s not as flashy with his emotions as Dustin is but he _has_ missed Dustin, and Mark.

“Mark,” Dustin calls, still hugging Chris. “Get over here! Group hug!”

“Fuck off.” Mark snaps, and yeah – the chances of that happening are very, very small. Mark hates physical contact. Chris had been shocked when Mark had hugged him goodbye when he had left to go work for Obama.

Dustin and Chris break apart, moving towards the couch where Mark is still sitting, chewing on a slice of pizza. Chris smiles at him.

“I missed you too.” He tells Mark carefully. Mark rolls his eyes and Chris smiles wider.

“Yeah,” Mark snipes, “I really missed you smiling at me like an indulgent parent.”

“What Mark _means_ ,” Dustin says helpfully, “is that he was so excited to hear you were coming that told everyone to go home early.”

“Wow,” Chris teases, grabbing a slice of pizza. It’s half chicken pesto and half veggie, because Mark keeps his own very odd version of kosher, even though he claims to not be practicing anymore. Chris is 90% sure Mark’s half of this pizza isn’t actually kosher, but he’s not stupid enough to ask Mark about it. “I’m so touched. Does that mean you actually went home early, Mark?”

Mark scoffs at him.

“Some things never change.” Dustin says fondly, stacking one slice of pizza face down on the other one like a sandwich and then trying to shove the entire thing in his mouth. Chris honestly has to look away. “Okay – Hercules or The Shawshank Redemption?”

“Dustin,” Chris says patiently, “we do not talk with food in our mouths.”

Dustin beams at him.

“What about that animated movie about the chick that joins the army.” Mark offers. “Mulan?”

“Ooohhh,” Dustin opines. “ _Great_ choice!”

 

They make it through _Mulan_ and half of _Hercules_ before Mark abruptly passes out, Chris casually reaching out and catching his mostly full bottle of beer before it crashes to the floor.

“Still have those cat like reflexes,” Dustin observes. “Sorry about Mark, he’s been working really hard –”

“I know,” Chris cuts him off. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended.”

Dustin yawns. “We’ve both been working really hard, actually.”

“Ahuh,” Chris teases. “Sure.”

“Just because you managed to escape,” Dustin starts up, and then yawns again.

“I think we could all use an early bedtime,” Chris says wryly. “I should go check into my hotel, anyway.”

“See you tomorrow at the office?” Dustin asks, grabbing the mostly empty pizza box and standing. Chris stands too.

“For sure.” He says. “I’ll come steal you away.”

“ _Good_ ,” Dustin says, with feeling.

Chris laughs and lets himself out. On his way to his hotel he drives past his old apartment – not on purpose, but it’s on the way. He misses it, a bit. Misses the temperamental shower and the view from his balcony. He thinks maybe he spent more time at Facebook’s headquarters and the PR building than his apartment, but still.

It’s better to not get too attached. Chris knows that. Chris knows better. Chris is possibly getting to that stage of old age where he doesn’t give a fuck.

 

*

 

Chris does as he promised, entering Facebook with a latte (his) and a caramel frappuccino (Dustin’s). Dustin likes double chocolate chip frappuccino but Chris has a long maintained (and widely enforced) rule that Dustin wasn’t allowed those until after lunch.

“Chris!” Dustin yells across the fishbowl, looking delighted. “My light, my air, my world…”

Everyone looks up; some wave. Chris smiles at them and nods, lifting one drink laden hand in acknowledgment as he traverses the maze of computers until he’s standing at Dustin’s desk. Very little about it has changed, which is more comforting than it should be.

“One caramel frappuccino,” Chris announces.

“And one Chris Hughes.” Dustin replies. “C’mon, this can wait.”

“Can it, though?” Chris questions, already letting Dustin tug him down one computer maze aisle, towards a conference room.

The thing about Facebook was, in order to encourage _openness_ (one of Mark’s weird, intense favorite subjects as long as the emotional implications of it were not actually brought up), there were no actual _walls_ in Facebook, except for Mark’s office and the many conference rooms.

“Is he still on about ‘openness?’” Chris asks as they walk into the nearest conference room, making air quotes with his free hand. Dustin, shutting the door behind, wrinkles his nose.

“Sometimes I bring it up at inappropriate times to watch him do his rapid lizard blink thing.” He confesses. “He’s started throwing things at me.”

Chris perches on the edge of the table. “Sounds like you deserve it.”

The walls of the conference room are glass, so Chris watches people work while Dustin settles into a chair and spins in it a few times, sipping his frappuccino.

“So.” Chris says. “Tell me everything.”

Once, when Chris was watching Grey’s Anatomy with a highly emotionally volatile Dustin at his side, Callie (who may or may not have been Callie O’Malley at that point, Chris honestly can’t remember) had observed that most med students are permanently awkward teenagers socially – forever stuck at 18 or 19 due to med school, lack of socialization and inability to talk about anything other than medical stuff, student loans and alcohol. Chris sort of feels the same way about Facebook, because whenever he talks to Dustin in depth, they always start out talking about the site.

So naturally when Chris says “tell me everything,” Dustin launches into an in depth update about the site, like the fact Facebook is close to turning cash-flow positive for the very first time, or the fact they’re “thinking about thinking about moving head quarters, you know, like finding a Microsoft style campus.”

“Whoa,” Chris says, pausing in the act of sipping his latte. “Really?”

Dustin, who has long since finished his drink and is now annoyingly chewing on his straw, nods. “Mark won’t admit it, but he’d love a vanity address – you know, like the one Apple has.”

“What, like Hacker Way or something?” Chris asks, shaking his head.

“‘Move fast, break things.’” Dustin quotes. “Anyway I’m sure you’ll hear all about this shit at the next share holders meeting, which is in like two months. So: how are things with you?”

Chris shrugs. “Boring,” he admits, which – is true, on the business end. “Everyone is very professional and well behaved at the firm in New York. I haven’t had to yell at anyone in a long time, I miss it.”

Dustin sniggers. “I bet. I’ll tell Cheryl to call you if Mark is ever extra shirty with her.”

“I picked her as my successor because I hoped she’d be able to handle him.” Chris says after a moment, taking another sip of his latte.

“Oh, she can.” Dustin assures him. “But sometimes I think she gets tired of his bullshit.”

If Chris were another man he would say ‘amen to that.’ Instead he raises his eyebrows.

“You and Bryce broke up, right?” He asks after a minute, and Dustin nods.

“I started dating a girl named Anita after, but – she wanted to do some sort of polyamory thing? And that’s not my style.”

Chris pulls a face and Dustin pulls a face right back at him. It’s a unique Dustin face, sort of like a horse’s flehmen but distinctly more ginger.

“Wow.” Chris says.

“I _know_ ,” Dustin says. “Like – cool, for people who do that? But not for me. Anyway,” he lobs his frappuccino cup into the trashcan. “There’s this really cute barista at the coffee place near my house, so, it’s cool.” He focuses on Chris. “What about you, man? I know you like ‘don’t do relationships,’” even if Dustin hadn’t done air quotes, Chris would have known they were there, “but...have you at least gotten laid recently? You do still do that, right?”

Chris shifts, clutching his latte with both hands.

“Dustin,” he says finally, voice sounding pinched even to his own ears. Dustin, apparently able to smell weakness and fear, leans forward.

“Chris?!” He replies exuberantly, eyes sparkling.

“What would you do…” Chris begins, choosing his words carefully. “No, wait.” He pops the lid off of his latte and peers down at the dregs in the bottom of his cup. “If you were…if you had _feelings_ for someone but you couldn’t be with them…what would you do?”

Dustin’s eyebrows have not stopped moving since Chris started talking. “Why can’t you be with them?” He asks, voice actually at a reasonable volume.

“It’s just…they’re off limits. Totally off limits.”

Dustin nods, and then swipes Chris’ cup out of his hand and peers down into it suspiciously before upturning it over his mouth. Chris lets him. This is part of Dustin’s thinking process. It’s why he tries to finish his drinks before he asks Dustin anything important.

“Well,” Dustin says, apparently satisfied Chris’ latte is actually gone. “I guess I would just try to make sure they’re happy. Like – I know you’re Chris Hughes and don’t use the word _love_ but that’s what love is – making sure someone is happy, and taking care of them, and respecting them. Even if it’s not as, like, a romantic partner. You know?”

Chris nods, but Dustin isn’t done.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, though – you’re Chris Hughes! Millionaire, cofounded Facebook, got Obama elected, really smart, got that cute home grown all American southern boy thing going for you –”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime. But, I mean – like who is off limits to you, Chris? For real? I think the only person _actually_ off limits is Eduardo, just because of this whole…”

Dustin trails off, staring intently at Chris, and Chris – looks away. Has to look away, because Dustin knows him too well, and he’s an idiot for ever bringing this up in the first place and thinking Dustin wouldn’t figure it out.

“Christopher…” Dustin says faux whisper that sounds like a shout than anything else. “Are you in love with Ed–”

“Please don’t say it.” Chris begs him. “ _Please.”_

“OH MY FUCKING GOD!” Dustin yells, leaping out of his chair so violently he up ends the thing. “HOLY SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” He bursts out of the conference room, still yelling. “OH MY GOD, OH MY FUCKING GOD, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, _SHIT!_ ”

The entirety of Facebook is staring now, and Dustin, apparently of the opinion that yelling just isn’t enough, has started to jump up and down. Chris puts his head in his hands.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mumbles to himself.

“Dustin!” Mark’s voice manages, somehow, to cut through Dustin’s yelling. Chris looks up to see Mark striding over, scowling, his posture perfect and one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket. He always stands up straight, something left over from fencing – the same reason he leaves his left hand in his hoodie pocket when talking or walking – but he manages to stand up even straighter when yelling at someone. _“Dustin.”_

Dustin shuts up.

“Please refrain from shouting in the fishbowl,” Mark orders. “Go back into the conference room, or go outside. _Some people_ are actually trying to work.”

“Hot _damn_ ,” Dustin says, almost quietly enough to belong in normal conversation.

“I don’t want to know.” Mark snaps. He turns on his heel and stalks off, the effect only slightly ruined by the noises of his flip-flops.

“No you do not,” Dustin agrees. He waves at his audience, an effective _get the fuck back to work_ signal, and marches back into the conference room.

“What the _fuck?!”_ he demands of Chris after carefully closing the door. “Are you an idiot?”

“Clearly.” Chris manages, still covering most of his face with his hands. He lowers them cautiously. “I should have known you would have figured it out.”

“Are you guys – are you _dating?_ ” Dustin picks up his fallen chair and rights it, sitting down and staring at Chris with rapt attention. “Was that ‘tell Mark to say hi to Eduardo for me’ some twisted kind of foreplay? Was the fruit basket a metaphor?”

“No, _no!_ ” Chris snaps. “No. He – he doesn’t know, and I need it to stay that way.”

“Chris.” Dustin’s voice is much gentler now. Chris bristles. “How long has this been going on?”

Chris closes his eyes.

“For a while.” Dustin judges. “Okay, I’m going to start throwing out numbers and depending on the severity of your reactions, I’m going to figure out the truth. Okay: 2006, when you grew close over graduation? No? 2005, when Eduardo was licking his wounds? Hmm…2004, when Facebook was happening? No?”

Chris has been trying to squeeze his eyes more tightly shut this entire time. He wonders how many people are watching them, is grateful Dustin’s back is to the programmers in case any of them can read lips.

“2003, when Eduardo was clearly in love with Mark and Mark was with Erica?” Chris feels, seemingly of it’s own accord, his jaw clench.

“Close, very close…” Dustin tells himself. Chris knows without looking that he’s tapping one finger against his chin. “Chris…” he pauses, voice even gentler. “2002, when you guys first met in an econ class?”

Chris slumps, and hears Dustin make a soft, sad noise.

“Oh, _buddy_ ,” Dustin whispers. “No, no.”

“Yup.” Chris pops the p, a habit he learned from Dustin. If he actually had a real life southern housewife schoolteacher mother, she would hate when he did that. “Truth’s out. I’m pathetic.”

“No, dude,” Dustin says earnestly, so earnestly that Chris opens his eyes to see Dustin staring at him with genuine concern. “That’s – shit. I sort of wondered, like, here and there but I always just wrote it off because you never did anything about it.”

Chris clears his throat. “I’m not going to, either. I just – it wouldn’t work.”

“Chris, can I ask you something?” Dustin asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Why don’t you do relationships?”

“Because…” Chris leans back in his chair. “I don’t…I don’t really understand them.”

“What?”

“I…” Chris shifts. “Until…”

“Eduardo?”

Chris can’t stop the pained noise from escaping his mouth. “Until… _him_ I had never really understood the difference between romance and friendship. I knew there must be a difference, because I never felt the urge to ask any of my friends to like, copilot my life with me, but I never felt the difference.”

This is not strictly true, or rather – it is true for Chris Hughes, but not for Cristoforo. Cristoforo has had, very, _very_ rarely, the stirrings of potential feelings for people over the centuries he’s been alive, and every time he squashed the feelings and went out of his way to prevent anything from happening. Eduardo is the closest he’s ever let himself get.

“But now things have changed.” Dustin prompts.

“I don’t – not enough.” Chris says, knowing he sounds mulish and not caring. “Not enough that I can offer him what he’d want. It seems like…an exercise in futility to even bring it up.”

“You’re trying to take care of him.” Dustin observes, and Chris barks out a laugh because if only Dustin fucking knew. “You’re trying to make sure he’s happy.”

A significant pause follows. Dustin is squinting at Chris so intently Chris knows that Dustin is probably either: trying to communicate with him telepathically _or_ yelling at him loudly but silently _or_ having a silent, furious debate with himself.

“I mean…” Dustin trails off. “I think that’s what love is, buddy. What you’re doing.”

“Guess that means it’s the right thing to do.” Chris snaps.

“No,” Dustin sighs. “I think that means – that it’s too late, maybe?” He runs a hand through his hair. “When did you know, Chris? Like – was there a moment?”

Chris opens his mouth and _stops_. Because he absolutely, physically cannot talk about it, for whatever reason, for every reason – because he can’t remember, because it might be tied up with souls and Tan and the swirl of snow, but mostly because it physically _hurts_ to think about.

“There – it’s not like that.” He says instead, and hates how audibly ragged his voice is. “I don’t. I don’t _love_ –” His voice cracks. “I don’t love him. I just…” He swallows. “Mark would never talk to me again, Dustin. _Eduardo_ would never talk to me again. This isn’t worth that, you know? They’ve just started to sort their shit out –”

“And nothing is ever, _ever_ going to happen between them.” Dustin cuts him off. “Ever. The way Mark talks about it, they shared meaningful eye contact and just magically _understood_ that, like some supernatural communication shit. And – it sucks, because Mark is really broken up about it. But he’s trying his best, and they’re friends now, and…maybe Eduardo deserves to know, you know?”

“Dustin.”

“I’m serious! If you feel so… _much_ that it’s like, causing you physical pain to think about then maybe you should tell him.”

“No.” Chris says, sinking iron into it. He uses the same tone he used whenever he told Mark to shut the fuck up or when he told Dustin to stop messing around, and it always worked, works now because Dustin stops talking. “Not happening. It’s a bad idea. I just – needed to make sure I was doing the right thing.”

“I really don’t think you are.” Dustin says, so bluntly that for a minute Chris thinks he’s talking to Mark.

“You told me earlier to do what I’m already doing!” Chris points out. “Seriously, Dustin – it’s just. It’s not going to happen.”

Dustin looks rebellious, so Chris leans forward and grabs one of his hands. “And you are _not_ going to say _anything_ about this to Eduardo _or_ Mark, do you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin mumbles. “I’d never tell them, you know that.”

Chris squeezes his hand and lets go. “I appreciate it.”

Dustin nods. “Listen, man – if you ever need to talk about this, I’m totally here.”

“Thanks.”

Dustin nods. “Cool. Okay. Let’s change the subject, okay?”

“ _Please_.” Chris breathes out.

“So Mark wants to redo the front page layout…”

 

*

 

There are no roads in Hell, no people, no wildlife. There is no wind. Chris knows demons who have been tethered to Hell, allowed to wander in its borders but not to wander out. They have few choices here, in a land of nothing: heed the call west or dig themselves a tomb to sleep until time’s time is up.

What Hell does have is desert as limitless as the sky; earth marbled red, orange, and white; mountains rising to pierce the sky; grey-green plants that sometimes flower and sometimes stay stagnant; and The Outpost.

That is where Chris is headed now. He knows the way, has spent enough time down here to find it after a few hour’s time.

He had taken his leave from Dustin and Mark, had dropped off his rental car and flown back to New York. He had taken a taxi to his apartment, had dropped his bags, had settled in, all the while feeling an ache or a pull elsewhere.

Humanity can travel across the globe faster than ever before but Chris can leave the world behind far quicker, can shrug off the guise of Chris Hughes to reveal everything that lies beneath it.

So now he’s here, threading his way between cacti as he moves across the lowlands, the mountain he and Eduardo climbed at his back.

The Outpost rises in front of him like some huge malevolence. There is no door to push aside when he reaches it, nothing obstructing the tunnel carved deep into the rock. Chris walks along it for a time, counting each step. The tunnel splits off a thousand times in every direction, with no signs to ease the passage. There’s no point, not for the people that live here. The desert is as much of a prison as The Outpost is.

He turns right after a time, then left, then right again, again and again until he’s outside a sparsely outfitted room.

Michael sits inside it, staring out of a window that looks out onto the desert. His room looks as it did last time Chris visited; a bench has been carved from the rock of one wall. There’s also a table and two chairs, and a dresser made from weathered wood.

The door to Michael’s room is simply an opening in the rock, and the fabric hanging that usually covers it has been tugging aside.

Michael can leave if he wants, can wander through the entire Outpost until he gets lost, and after that he will be patiently led back to his room. Chris has the sense that Tan initially didn’t know what to do with the people who died after selling her their soul. He’s never gotten an explanation from her but what he’s gathered is that there are two afterlifes; this one, where the soulless go, and the other one.

Tan has taken great care to house those in her charge. They want for nothing. But Tan could let them wander the desert and they would want for nothing; death has a way of corroding memories and personality until people are shoddy imitations of themselves.

“Hi, Michael.” Chris says, pausing outside of Michael’s doorway and putting his hands behind his back. Michael doesn’t stir. Chris wonders what he sees outside of the window. “Can I come in?”

“Hmm?” Michael asks, turning to look at Chris over his shoulder. “Oh. Yes, you can. Welcome.”

Chris walks inside and stops just next to the doorway. It takes Michael a few minutes to muster up any words.

“Where am I?” Michael asks after deciding Chris is more interesting than the view outside his window.

“You’re in a place called The Outpost, in Hell.”

Michael goggles at him. “In Hell? But I – I went to Church.”

“You sold your soul so that your daughter could have a child.” Chris has done this song and dance with Michael enough that he could stream line the whole conversation, but he finds the rhythm of it soothing. Besides, the last time he had tried to explain everything to Michael without being prompted, Michael had had a bit of a melt down.

“Did I?” Michael asks. “Did it work?”

“Yes.” Chris grants Michael one thin smile. “She had a baby boy and named him after you. They tend to just call him Mike.”

Michael digests this. “Did I ever meet him?”

“Yes. You had two years with him – more time than you should have, to my understanding.”

“Is he out there?” Michael asks, gesturing out of the window. He’s started asking this question recently, and Chris has never understood it.

“No, no. There’s no one out there.” Chris says, trying to sink iron into his voice. “There’s no one out there, Michael.”

Michael squints at him suspiciously enough that Chris knows it’s time for him to go, so he does.

He never knows if Tan knows about his visits with Michael. Oh, she probably does – this is her realm, after all. But she’s never brought it up, and he doesn’t want her to. He just wants things to remain the same, even though they never do.

He passes the room of someone who is screaming, and Chris picks up the pace. He can feel the Earth calling him home.

 

*

 

All joking aside, Chris Hughes _is_ a bit of a workaholic, especially coming off of a presidential campaign, especially after taking a few days off. He gets up early and goes to bed late and spends all day long working, eschewing the normal drinking and networking routine unless absolutely necessary. He actually almost never goes drinking except for when Jamal or Andre or Leslie or all three of them manage to strong arm him into going with them. Like tonight; they dragged him away from his take out and stack of reports and into their favorite bar, Ulysses on Stone St.

Now, it’s 12:30 a.m. and Chris is trying to shoo a very intoxicated Leslie into a cab. Jamal had bailed around 10:00, citing an early flight in the morning; Andre had bailed hurriedly around 11:40 after getting a text. Leslie had watched him go, ordered a shot, and then had burst into tears when Chris awkwardly asked if she was okay.

“I had no idea you two were together,” he says now, giving up and clambering into the cab after her.

“We’re not,” Leslie sniffs, wiping her eyes with Chris’ pocket square. “Should I really be telling you this? You’re my boss.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.” Chris says.

Leslie rattles off her address for the cab driver before flopping back against the seat and covering her face with her hands.

“This is so embarrassing,” she mumbles into her hands. “I’m hoping I’m going to be too drunk to remember this tomorrow.”

“At least you and Andre didn’t try to go shot for shot again,” Chris offers.

“There are paper bags and paper towels under the passenger sheet,” the cab driver says, sounding alarmed. “Please don’t throw up on the seats.”

Leslie starts crying again. Chris sighs and puts an arm around her.

“I will pretend this didn’t happen if you want.” he tells her gently. “And I won’t tell Andre about any of it.”

“Promise?” Leslie asks, sniffling into his shoulder.

“I promise.”

Leslie nods and finally sits up, blowing her nose in his pocket square before dabbing at her eyes the way girls do when they don’t want to mess up their makeup. “Okay,” she says, sounding steadier. “Okay. I’m sorry about all of this.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Chris says.

“I’ll get your pocket square dry cleaned.”

“I appreciate it.”

By the time the cab drops Leslie off she’s as impeccably put together as before. Chris insists on picking up the bill, but doesn’t do so until the door to Leslie’s building is safely shut behind her.

“Rough night?” the cab driver asks.

“Yes.” Chris says around a yawn. “Unexpectedly so.” He hands the cabbie his credit card. “I can walk from here, actually.”

“Cheers.” The cabbie says, handing him his card back.

As soon as Chris gets out of the cab his phone begins to ring. Chris stares down at it suspiciously. The last time he got a call from an unknown number this late it was Dustin calling to ask Chris to bail him out of jail because he had forgotten that Chris had left Facebook. Very few people actually have Chris’ cell phone number; it’s a number he’ll pick up even if he’s having his arm sawed off. His version of a red phone. So whoever this unknown number is either has the wrong number or is overly presumptuous.

Or –

Chris picks up the phone. “Chris Hughes.”

The tinny sound of someone crying makes him think, for a minute, that it’s Leslie again, but then, confirming his suspicions: _“This is…Officer Amy Ritter_. _I, um, didn’t expect you to pick up.”_

Chris shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t really know what to say.

His silence must clue Amy in. _“Look,”_ she says, sniffling a little. _“I need a favor. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise, okay, I get you have a life to live or a cover to maintain or whatever **but I need help.”**_

“With what?” Chris asks. He hates when people cry. He’s already had to deal with a crying Leslie tonight, and he _likes_ Leslie. He doesn’t like Amy, doesn’t know her, doesn’t trust her.

He’s spent a lot of time and money keeping his lives separate, divorcing Chris Hughes from Cristoforo. Eduardo has been the only exception, because Eduardo broke the wall between them when he had said, “I have a new friend” and followed it up with “I think you know her.”

Amy is one of Tan’s, which should make her okay, but she’s a wildcard and besides, he’s not her fucking keeper. He’s not.

_“I need to get into a graveyard.”_

Chris waits.

_“It’s run – by the Archdiocese of San Francscio, **please** , I need –”_

“I can’t help you.” Chris tells her, looking around to make sure he won’t be overheard. It’s close to 1 a.m. but New York _is_ the city that never sleeps. He starts walking in the vague direction of his loft. “We can’t go on holy ground, you know that –”

“ _Please_ ,” Amy sounds hysterical, like she’s about to do something horrible. Chris can barely understand her. “ _Please help me._ ”

Fuck. Chris _hates_ this.

“Where are you?” He asks, turning down the closest thing to a dark alleyway the Upper West Side has.

_“Outside of Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma. Um, um…1500 Mission Road.”_

“Stay there.” Chris orders, and hangs up.

 

He had lied to Amy, technically. They _could_ go on holy ground, occasionally. Negotiation was possible, which is why sometimes the soulless and the damned could attend AA meetings in churches, or funerals, or weddings. But it was usually negotiated in advance through a number of third parties.

Chris puts his phone away, checks to see if he has his knife (yes), double checks that his chosen alleyway is deserted, and then disappears.

He doesn’t do this often, because it’s unpleasant, because it’s inconvenient, because it raises suspicion, because it’s disorienting – take your pick of reasons. One minute he’s in New York City and the next he’s in Colma, California, somewhere on Mission Road. He’s close to Amy, he can feel it.

He walks in her direction, turning down a smaller road, the sign informing him it’s _Lawndale Boulevard_. There’s a high school up ahead, with a few scattered cars in the lot and a scrolling matinee sign telling him about _El Camino High School, Home of the Wildcats!_

Amy is curled into herself, sitting on the hood of an older car and clutching a bouquet of flowers. She’s barely visible in the parking lot, the few overhead lights casting long shadows down the empty pavement. One such light, maybe three rows of cars down from her, flickers erratically as Chris approaches, and then goes out. It seems that in travel, he’s lost _Chris Hughes_ and become Cristoforo instead. He doesn’t blame Amy for training her gun on him when she hears him coming; he simply raises his hands and continues walking slowly.

“What the fuck?” Amy’s voice is shaking but her gun isn’t. “What are you?”

Chris makes a face. “If I say I’ll explain later, will you let me?”

Amy purses her lips. The fact that she’s actually deigning to think about it makes Chris like her, and he doesn’t want to like her.

“Fine.” She snaps. “How’d you get here? I thought you were in New York City.” When Chris raises his eyebrows, her shoulder jerks like she wants to shrug. “I googled you.”

“Perks of the job,” Chris says shortly.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” She says a moment later.

“I didn’t want to.” Chris snaps. He’s too close to holy ground after all these years. It burns. Beneath his clothes, all old wounds are raised and enflamed now, the five arrow wounds paining him with each breath.

“Please.” There’s mascara smeared underneath Amy’s eyes. “I just need to get inside, you don’t even need to come –”

“You should have let me know earlier!” Chris snaps. “Or, even better, gone to Tan. I’m not your fucking keeper.”

“Can you help me or not?” Amy whispers, voice fragile. At some point she’s put away her gun, and now she looks defenseless, as flimsy as the blossoms in the bouquet she’s clutching.

Chris looks away. Across the two empty lanes of traffic, at the rows of trees, at the measly chain link fence – at the graveyard, beyond. Behind him, Amy is crying again, the ugly sounds of someone trying to stifle sobs echoing across the empty parking lot.

“Okay.” He sighs. He would have preferred three hours of Leslie to this. “Come on.”

 

The street lamps flicker and die as Chris and Amy cross the road, hand in hand. She is clutching his hand desperately, not even flinching away from the unnatural heat and Chris lets her. It must be hurting her, now, to be so close to this – something directly within a church’s territory, something that has been blessed and consecrated multiple times.

“How do we get in?” Amy asks as they stop right where the road ends and the grass of the graveyard begins, squaring her shoulders. Sometimes Chris forgets what she is – soulless, a cop, take your pick – and then she’ll do something like that to remind him. Something tough. Something _human_.

“Blood,” Chris answers, dropping her hand to grab his knife from his pocket and flicking it open. He pulls up the sleeve of his suit and begins to unbutton the cuff of his shirt. “And prayer.” He glances at Amy. In the semi-darkness of California, the sky a burnt orange of light pollution over ahead, only parts of her face are visible: dark eyes, snatches of pale hair fighting to escape her bun; the curve of one cheek, the corner of her horrified mouth. “Do you know any prayers, Amy?”

“I can’t – I can’t say them anymore,” she stammers. “Oh – _fuck!”_ Her voice cracks as Chris slices into his forearm without preamble, blood dripping down his forearm and onto the grass beneath.

“You have to,” Chris tells her flatly. “Now: do you know any prayers?”

“Don’t you?!” She yelps.

He does – or did, somewhere in the recesses of _Cristoforo’s_ memory, jumbled messes of Latin and the Italian dialect of his village and later, of Milan. But none come to mind now, and none will form in his mouth.

Chris tips his arm so the blood pours more readily onto the grass. He sees Amy bow her head, as if under a great weight, the color of her hair warping in the lack of light – he thinks of those long dead –

“O, my God,” Amy’s voice trembles, a note of pain threaded through it. She gropes for Chris’ shoulder, digs her nails into him and holds on tight. His blood continues to drip on the ground. “I love Thee above all things, with my whole heart and soul,” she’s crying again, whether from the pain of the prayer or something else, Chris doesn’t know, “because Thou – Thou art all-good and worthy of all love.”

Amy gasps, leaning into Chris, her tiny hand claw-like upon his shoulder. “I love – my neighbor as myself for love of Thee. I – _ah_ , I forgive all who have injured me, and ask – ask pardon of all whom I have injured. Amen.”

Chris’ cut begins to clot, and there is a groan from somewhere far away, perhaps in the heart of the earth, perhaps at the top of the sky.

“It hurts,” Amy whispers. She’s hugging the bouquet of flowers to her chest, almost crushing them; after a minute Chris takes them from her, their fingers brushing.

“You did good,” he says grudgingly, peering at the flowers. He couldn’t have done that. He would have done everything _properly_ , gone through the proper channels. Amy is one of those people that manages to flout all the rules so impressively that people will let her, will make it easier for her to do so. Chris supposes he’s one of those people now.

“Did it work?” Amy asks, and Chris glances down at his arm. The cut is mostly healed now. He scrubs at the blood staining his skin absently.

“Yes.” He nods at the chain link fence. “Are we going to hop that?”

“Yup.”

“Are you going to arrest both of us after?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Chris shrugs off his suit jacket. “I should have changed for this.” He says, and – and Amy laughs, a little watery but joyful and bright. Chris feels just a little bit lighter.

 

The grave Amy is looking for is close, or at least, is on this side of the graveyard. Amy has brought a flashlight, a tiny one stuffed in the pocket of her sweatshirt. She holds it like one would hold a gun; close to the body and firmly aimed. Chris holds onto the flowers, his suit jacket thrown over one shoulder.

“The Act of Love,” he says after a few minutes of walking. He knows that tomorrow he’s going to want to buy new shoes, knows there’s dirt and dust settling on his loafers. He also knows he’s way too fucking prissy about clothing for what he is, but he’s old. He’s allowed to have luxuries.

“Yes.” Amy replies, flashlight scanning the ground ahead of them.

“I…was expecting a different act.”

Amy glances at him, the flashlight beam pausing. “The Act of Contrition?” She asks, and Chris thinks maybe she’s raising her eyebrows. “But I’m not sorry,” she confesses, voice pitched low to protect this secret.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, and Amy doesn’t venture any more information. So the silence holds, a tiny string linking the two of them, with hundreds and hundreds of dead to witness, some fresh and some only dust, the blood on the ground behind them darker than the actual night itself.

Amy turns down a row of graves and Chris follows with trepidation, each footfall deliberate. He knows the people here are somewhere he cannot reach and he’s unable to shake the feeling of being cornered, treed by dogs he cannot actually see.

And then Amy stops at one grave, the flashlight clattering to the ground as she sinks to her knees. The light spills like blood across the ground, throwing parts of the grave and it’s neighbors into stark relief.

Chris doesn’t need it to read.

“Magnolia Jane Ritter,” he reads quietly, clasping hands and bouquet behind his back. “1981-2009. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend.” He pauses. _“‘Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.’”_

Amy is crying again. Chris moves to stand beside her, to place the bouquet – a little rumbled, the blossoms slightly crushed but still beautiful – on the grave before her. And then: “I thought you got justice for your sister.”

“I _did!_ ” Amy sobs, not pausing to question how he knows this. Her grief shatters across the silence of the graveyard more forcefully than any bullet. “I did – I went to the academy, graduated, and was mentored by my partner, Martinez. He convinced his old partner, Koval, to reopen Maggie’s case. Three months ago, Cory confessed and took a plea bargain, fifteen years with no early release – and then a week later Maggie got hit by a drunk driver and died instantly.”

Chris flinches.

“I – I yelled for Tan, told her this wasn’t part of the deal, that this wasn’t what I signed up for and you know what she told me?”

“That she had nothing to do with it.” Chris guesses. “That life is like that. That she was sorry.”

“She wasn’t lying, either,” Amy reaches out to caress the carving of the gravestone. “I wanted her to have something to do with it – I wanted to be able to blame her, to make this all worth it, but.” She reaches for the bouquet, shifts it a few inches. “Life doesn’t work that way, does it?”

“You said you weren’t sorry,” Chris reminds her, putting his hands in his pockets. He’s not used to being the emotional soundboard for so many people. Actually, scratch that, he’s not used to being the emotional soundboard for anyone but Mark – and that wasn’t being a sound board so much as prodding Mark to _show_ emotion, or telling him what he could and couldn’t do. It was like parenting, not like…being a friend. Even Dustin wasn’t like this, because Dustin was so pre-emptively open with everything so you couldn’t use it against him that he had never actually asked Chris’ counsel about stuff like this – he had just monologued, and Chris had listened.

And Eduardo – Chris cannot think about him, with his wounds already near the surface, with the dead listening.

“I’m not,” Amy mutters. She twists to face him. “I’m _not_.” Her face, thrown into relief by the flashlight, is hard, mouth like a twisted gash. “The guy who sexually assaulted her? We _grew up_ _together._ I’ve known him and his family my whole life. He’s like my cousin. A year and a half ago, he raped her. When she finally worked up the courage to tell us who did it, half of our friends abandoned her. They didn’t _believe_ her – but why would she lie?!” Her next exhaled breath is ragged, the edges frayed. “I was dating – this guy. We were all friends, Cory – the one who raped her – and Rafael, my boyfriend, and for a while he like…”

“Tried to play both sides?” Chris suggests quietly. He’s seen people this angry before, people who blow hot and work their way into an inferno, but usually they run out of words long before this. He’s impressed by Amy, continually, a little stream of constant reminders.

“Yes!” Amy snaps out, glancing up at him in a mix of irritation and gratitude. “And – I didn’t ask him to choose – that’s not how people work –”

“You didn’t ask him to choose because you were afraid he wouldn’t choose you.” Chris corrects her quietly. How many times has he seen this, with different situations, different people, and different things at stake? But in the end it’s the same, and it ends with a smashed laptop and two people at the opposite ends of the country not talking to each other.

“He didn’t,” she gasps out, like he’s punched her in the gut. Chris can _feel_ it, the visceral pain of it. “One day he texted me out of no where, said he couldn’t – that he believed Cory. And I told him to go fuck himself.”

“But Cory confessed.” Chris says after a minute.

“To _multiple_ rapes. And Rafael hasn’t – hasn’t _apologized_ or anything and I don’t care, I don’t want or need him, he’s scum, but –”

“But you still miss him.” Chris finishes for her. He kneels then, keeping space between them, and meets her eyes.

“It’s like someone scooped something out all of me,” Amy says, laying a hand against her breast, over her heart. “Losing him, losing Maggie – I thought that’s what it would feel like, to lose my soul. But I didn’t feel anything at all.”

Chris wants to rub his eyes, to sigh, to…lie down, and forget about all of this. To do what the very old demons do – to sleep without dreams until time’s time is up. But he’s not ready to do that, doesn’t think he ever _could_ do that. Instead, he reaches out and takes one of Amy’s hands between both of his, holding it as impersonally as possible.

“Your soul isn’t heavy,” he tells her. “That’s your heart.”

She stares at him, eyes glittering, body curving towards him like a flower.

“You’re right,” he continues. “You don’t need Rafael. You don’t need anyone. You alone are enough.”

“I know.” Amy says, and Chris smiles. He likes people who know things about themselves, who are sure of themselves. At least Amy tells him she doesn’t need his compliments a bit more gracefully than Mark does; he doesn’t need to worry about her as much.

They sit like that for a while, Amy’s hand turned so she’s holding onto Chris as he holds onto her, Amy’s flashlight still working despite Chris’ presence. It must be brand new. This close, Chris can smell Amy – gardenias and gun oil and sweat. It’s a pleasant smell. He wonders what he smells like. Probably blood and something burnt.

“It’s her birthday, today.” Amy says after a long while, unfolding her legs so she can stand. She pulls Chris up with her. “Maggie’s. She would have been twenty-nine.”

“Next year,” Chris says, looking down at their joined hands. Amy bends and grabs the flashlight with her free hand. “Next year, just let me know in advance. It’ll be easier that way.”

The flashlight is pointed away but he still catches the curve of her smile, familiar like the curve of the moon in the sky – a smile that feels like a privilege. “Okay,” she agrees, and squeezes his hands. “Come on. We have to leave before I arrest both of us.”

She leads, and Chris follows.

 

Amy’s car is a Volvo old enough to look questionable, the color unknowable in the lack of light. She drops Chris’ hand to unlock it, climbing into the car and then reaching over to unlock the passenger side door. Chris gets in after a beat, not really sure what to do, unnaturally pale hands clumsy on the seat belt.

“Where are we going?” he asks after a minute, pulling himself inward a few fragments at a time. Amy starts the car and puts it into first, and they drive out of the parking lot.

“My parent’s house.” Amy isn’t looking at him, hands at 10 and 2 o’clock on the steering wheel. “They’ll be asleep by now, since it’s –” she checks the dashboard clock, momentarily illuminated by it’s antiseptic blue glow. “Past midnight.”

Chris yawns. It’s edging towards 4 am for him, and he needs to be across the country and in the office in less than two hours to see how Europe’s closing.

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead he lets Amy drive them to a ranch style house, stays silent as she parks the car. They get out and she leads them around the back of the house, jiggling the doorknob of the back door to unstick the lock. The inside of the house is still, no animals there, no TV left on.

“You can come in.” Amy says when Chris pauses at the doorway. She takes his hand and tows him down the hallway and through a doorway, closing the door before flicking the light on.

The walls are painted bright turquoise and Chris smiles for the first time all night, because that fits Amy in a way he didn’t expect, didn’t think he was looking for.

Amy unceremoniously drops her wallet, flashlight, and keys onto the chair beside the door, checking to make sure the safety is on before doing the same with her service weapon. Then she flops onto the bed and looks up at Chris tiredly.

Her sweatshirt says _Stanford_ on it.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re all…back to normal.”

“So I am.” Chris sticks his hands in his pockets.

“How did Chris Hughes get into all of this?” Amy asks. It’s one of those subtle, leading questions the police are so fond of. Chris, leaning against one vibrant wall, raises an eyebrow at her.

 _I see you_ , he tells her silently. Out loud he said: “He didn’t. Chris Hughes never existed.”

“Really?” She asks it casually, still in interrogation mode, and Chris sighs.

“Stop that.” He orders. “If you have a question, just ask.”

Amy raises her eyebrows. “And you’ll answer? Just like that?” At his silence, she scowls at him. “You promised to explain.”

“Yes.” Chris promises. “I will answer any question you have as much as I am able.”

“How old are you?”

“Old.”

Amy raises her eyebrows again. “If I ask exactly how old are you going to pull a _Twilight?_ ”

Chris pauses. “Twilight?” He echoes.

“Oh, it’s…this vampire book.” Amy bites her lip, cheeks slowly beginning to match her Stanford sweatshirt. “You know, supernatural romance. It’s dumb.”

Chris stares at her.

“It’s not – you don’t look like you read stuff like that! But it’s so popular I thought you might know about it…There’s even a movie, it came out –”

“Last year.” Chris says slowly. He thinks he saw Dustin reading it once, hunched over it at work, trying to hide the fact he wasn’t actually coding from Mark and Chris. “So what does this have to do with –”

“Bella, the main character, asks the vampire guy, Edward, how old he is. And he’s all, ‘seventeen.’ So she asks: ‘how long have you been seventeen?’ It’s super dramatic.”

“Ah. So – how long?”

“What?”

“How long as he been seventeen?”

“Like ninety years? I don’t really remember, I read it in college.”

Chris crosses his arms. “I’m older than him. By a lot.”

“Okaaay,” Amy drags out the end of the word, wrinkling her nose. “This is surreal,” she mutters. “Is the southern accent real?”

“I’ve spent a fair bit of time in the South.”

“How did you become…like this?” She gestures ineffectively, hands small and curling back towards her chest like tiny birds.

“‘Like Tan, but lesser?’” Chris quotes, showing a bit of teeth. His mouth moves into a smile when Amy’s chin juts forward stubbornly.

“Answer the question,” she snaps. When he doesn’t, still grinning at her, she narrows her eyes at him. “I know what you’re doing,” she snaps. “Cops do it all the time. Stand while the suspect sits, act like you have more power than they do –”

“But I do.” Chris points outs silkily. “I have much more power than you do.”

“Would you actually use it?” Amy’s eyebrows are as skeptical as her voice, as her curled lip. “It’s too late, right?”

Chris dips his head. _Point_. “I sold my soul while I was dying,” he says, dropping the smooth, dangerous tone and relaxing a bit against the wall. “I don’t really remember it, which is – standard. A blessing, inasmuch as we can be blessed.”

“What did you sell it for?”

“I wanted something.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “Ground breaking. I never would have guessed –”

“Not for myself.” Chris says, cutting her off. “For someone else.” Silence stretches for a breath, tenuous. “You and I are alike, in that way.”

Amy digests that, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “How long did it take for it to happen?” she asks carefully. A good question; she will make a good detective, not easily distracted.

Chris can barely remember, anymore, it’s been so long. “Two years.” He says after a minute, resisting the urge to count on his fingers.

“And you became a…”

“Demon.” Chris says the word so she doesn’t have too. Amy flinches a little and Chris holds up a hand. “It’s okay.”

“Just like that?” Amy asks after a moment.

“Well.” Chris pauses, thinking of the Wastes. He can barely remember his own stint there anymore; it’s been eclipsed by Eduardo, by the blood in the snow, the furious circles of Eduardo’s thoughts, Chris’ repeated litany of _figure it out figure it figure it out_ – as close to a prayer as he was allowed. “Not quite.”

Amy stares at him. “That’s really vague.”

Chris grants her another thin smile.

“If there are…demons,” Amy finishes heroically, “are there angels?”

“Yes.”

Her next question shocks the hell out of him. “Has an angel ever sold their soul?”

Chris tries not to react. “Just one.” He says, moving out of the at ease position to put his hands in his pockets.

“Who?”

“Pick another topic.”

“Okay.” Amy takes her bun down and combs her fingers through it, yanking on the knots.” Did you really co-found Facebook?”

“Yes.” He can _feel_ his brow furrowing, knows he should say something else but doesn’t know what. “Mark and Dustin did most of the work. I just…beta tested, and then became spokesperson.”

“Do they know about you?” Amy asks, and Chris sags a bit, everything about tonight catching up with him. He thinks of Eduardo looking at Chris over his shoulder, the curve of his mouth, his warm eyes.

“No.” Chris says. Pauses. “One of them does.”

Amy nods. “Okay.”

Chris waits, but Amy doesn’t ask anything else, instead starts unlacing her shoes with an exhausted sigh. He watches her brush her hair away from her face, watches her tuck it behind one small ear. “Anything else?”

“Not right now.” Amy says seriously, letting one shoe fall to the floor, and then the next. Her socks have butterflies on them. She must have been off duty today. Or maybe she just wears patterned socks to work, Chris can’t tell. He doesn’t know if she’s the type of person who does that, but he wants to.

Amy pauses. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Chris thinks about it. “Do you want me to beat up Rafael?” He asks, and Amy looks up at him quickly. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pale, but he can feel Cristoforo peeking out, just a little – it’s what makes people listen to Chris Hughes, what makes them respect him.

“No.” Amy says, but she has to take a minute to think about it; her small hands have curled into fists. “Not right now, no.”

“Call me if you change your mind.” He says, watching her get ready for bed. “Or – if you need something. Preferably in advance, if it has to do with Holy ground.”

“Are you going to go now?” Amy asks, curling her legs under her. She looks softer than before, looks younger with her hair down, mascara still smeared beneath her eyes.

“Yes.” Chris checks his watch. “I have to be at work in two hours.”

“Oh.” Amy nods. “Well – thanks for…coming. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Chris says shortly. “Call me if you change your mind about Rafael.”

Amy is smiling when Chris shuts the door behind him, and he’s thinking about her smile when he disappears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up, there is discussion of a past suicide attempt in this chapter.

_May_

 

Amy grows in the cracks of Chris’ life when he isn’t looking. He’s not good at having friends; he tends to only have acquaintances or business contacts. He used to think his friend list comprised only of Mark and Dustin and sometimes, Eduardo, for all that they’ve tried not to have each other. But Amy is on that list now, texting him about coffee, teasing him about reading Twilight, there to skype and watch horrible reality TV with.

When Leslie silently returns his dry cleaned pocket square to him Chris realizes he has to mentally add her to his friend list, even though she’s his employee, even though they’re pretending that night didn’t happen.

(He watches her and Andre carefully, not wanting to interfere but preparing to do so if it negatively affects the office. But it doesn’t. In mid May Chris finally figures out it’s because Andre _doesn’t know_ and Leslie is too much of a professional to even hint at her feelings during work.

Chris, unable to keep any of this to himself, texts Amy about it.

Amy Ritter, 4:37

_omfg!!!!  
ur life is a tv show, i s2g_

  
  
Chris Hughes, 4:40

_Except on TV shows the characters actually get together.  
This isn’t The Office_

Amy Ritter, 4:48

_Y do u type everything out?_

_Btw r u done w/ Twilight yet? last time we talked u said u were older than Carlisle but his story isnt v far into the book_

 

Chris Hughes, 4:54

_Did I tell you how much the store clerk judged me for buying the book?_

_I’m slow going because I have to be very covert about reading it._

 

Amy Ritter, 5:03

_y r u even reading it???_

Chris Hughes, 5:05

 _Research_.)

 

Suddenly, it’s almost June and Dustin is calling and asking if Chris is coming to the next shareholders meeting, and if he is then when is he flying out?

Leslie asks him the same thing and Chris thinks that Dustin must have called her and talked to her about it. He doesn’t think much of it; Dustin, like Mark, doesn’t have a great grip on boundaries Then, one day when he and Leslie are walking to the their favorite coffee shop, Leslie interrupts her own rant about Davies by grabbing Chris’ arm.

“Did you ever respond to that fruit basket?” She asks, squinting up ahead.

“What?” Chris asks, looking down at her hand on his arm and then back up at her face.

“Did you?” She asks. “I’m guessing you didn’t, because you told us to either eat it or donate it while running the note through the shredder, but the point is that he’s coming this way.”

“I –” He had known that it didn’t take a genius to figure out who _E.S._ was but he hadn’t ever expected –

“Do you want to go turn around?” Leslie asks, looking at Chris. When he doesn’t answer she rolls her eyes and tugs him around the nearest corner. “Stop,” she says, turning to face him and peering over his shoulder.

Chris can’t move; otherwise he wouldn’t be able to resist turning around to look at Eduardo _._ God, how he wants to look at Eduardo, wants to see him alive and well in this world. Last time he saw Eduardo was in Hell; last time he saw Eduardo on earth, Eduardo was laying in the snow, thrown clear of his mangled Audi that he had driven into a tree.

He had never gone to see Eduardo in the hospital, couldn’t have after – after –

“Okay,” Leslie says, relaxing. “All clear.”

It’s funny; for all that he couldn’t move a minute ago he can now, moves so fast he almost trips.

It’s Eduardo all right, walking arm in arm with a tiny Indian woman. As Chris watches Eduardo throws back his head and laughs. He’s too far away for Chris to see the hole where Eduardo’s soul should be; all he can see is the elegant line of Eduardo’s neck and the delicate shell of one ear.

Chris wants him so much he aches with it. His chest burns with it. He feels like he’s going to shake apart.

“Oh.” Leslie whispers, looking at him. Chris doesn’t look at her. He watches Eduardo walk away, still laughing, the woman he’s with resting her head against his shoulder for a moment, their figures already being swallowed up by the mass of tourists around them.

Chris swallows convulsively.

“That woman he’s with is Preeta Virk.” Leslie says, placing a cool hand on his arm. “She’s engaged to Divya Narendra. They opened Lakshmi Ventures in January.”

 _Oh_. “That’s where Eduardo works now.” Chris’ voice sounds like gravel. Leslie starts moving again and Chris falls into step beside her. “He – I –”

“I think I understand.” Leslie says, putting him out of his misery. Chris scrubs a hand over his face. Of course she understands; of course she does, because Chris is so fucking obvious about this. The only person who doesn’t understand is Eduardo. The fruit basket made that abundantly clear.

“Come on.” Leslie says as he opens the coffee shop door for her. “Let’s go get you your favorite non alcoholic beverage.” She waits about two and a half minutes before delicately clearing her throat and saying, “By the way…”

“Yes?”

“Dustin keeps calling to ask when you’re going to be flying out for the shareholders meeting.”

“Mhm.” Chris says, knowing what she’s going to say next but not knowing how to stop her.

“Should I tell him you aren’t going to go?”

“God, no. He’d never let me hear the end of it.” Chris pauses to order his coffee and pay and waits for Leslie to do the same before continuing. “No, I have to go. Word is Facebook has finally turned cash flow positive. Besides, I promised Davies I’d tell Thiel about his pet project.”

“Fucking Davies.” Leslie mutters. “Um.”

“Please.” Chris swallows again. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay.” Leslie sounds relieved. “So – do you think Thiel will actually go for Davies’ project?”

 

Later, back at the office, Chris books his tickets and hotel before emailing them to Leslie and Dustin.

 

Dustin Moskovitz, 2:02

_Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Cnt wait 2 c u!_

 

*

 

_June_

 

Chris always arrives early to meetings out of habit. Whenever he walks into Facebook he starts thinking of how he’ll bully Mark into attending the meeting and where the spare button down shirt is, if it’s clean. Today he catches himself worrying about whether Mark will be on time before reminding himself that it’s not his problem anymore and hasn’t been for a long time.

He brings coffee for Mark (and Dustin) anyway, because Mark has been known to drink a frappuccino under dire circumstances and Chris considers shareholders meetings to be very dire, with no exceptions.

He’s plenty surprised to find Mark, _wearing a button down and tie,_ in the fishbowl talking quietly to Dustin. Most of Facebook’s staff are ignoring their boss, maybe because he’s yelled at them or maybe they’re just genuinely very invested in their work, Chris doesn’t know. He does note Mark, despite being dressed up, is wearing a black hoodie. Some things do not change.

“Hey,” he says quietly, Mark and Dustin turning to look at him. “I brought coffee.” He hands over the two frappuccino’s – mocha for Mark and caramel for Dustin – and sips his own latte.

“Hi.” Dustin smiles at him tiredly. “I was just talking to Marky Mark, here,” he pokes Mark in the shoulder with a finger, “about meeting protocol.”

Mark scowls at Dustin. “I am not a child.”

“Actually I was wondering if you, um,” Dustin glances around furtively, checking to see that no one is listening, “are okay with the fact Eduardo is coming?” He’s staring at Mark intensely, eyebrows slanted in a way that is distinctly concerned, but he’s nudging Chris with one bony elbow.

Chris nudges him back.

“Mark will be fine,” he says, meeting Mark’s eyes. Mark holds his gaze, which is rare –he’s always seemed to consider eye contact to be a waste of time. Mark’s eyes are a uniquely transmutable blue, the shades of which Chris has stopped trying to keep track of. Right now they’re a shade darker than medium, maybe from exhaustion. “Right?”

Mark shrugs.

“We’ll be fine.” Chris says, glancing at Dustin. Dustin nods at him.

“It’s weird.” Mark says, taking a sip of his frappuccino. “Having you here as a shareholder and not as…”

“Your keeper?” Chris asks dryly, but he’s smiling. Mark said something to the same extent the first time Chris attended only as a shareholder. Chris had agreed then, and he agrees now.

Mark glowers at him, but his eyes are happy and Chris relaxes.

 

By the time Dustin has finished his frappuccino and started eying Chris’ latte, they’ve migrated to Mark’s office, as the meeting won’t start for another hour.

“You can go…do whatever,” Mark says, spinning away from the keyboard to look at Dustin and Chris. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“But I’ve missed you.” Chris teases, fully expecting Mark’s scowl. “You don’t call, you don’t write –”

“You were here two months ago.” Mark snaps. “Besides, I hate talking on the phone.”

“We should skype.” Dustin says. He’s still staring at Chris’ latte. Chris sighs and hands it over. He knows for a fact there will be coffee provided at the meeting.

“You two live five minutes away from each other.” Chris says.

“Yeah, so Mark and I will skype you.”

“You make it sound like we’re married.” Mark mutters.

“Um, we are,” Dustin says, rolling his eyes. “We’re married to Facebook _and_ each other, duh.”

“If that was true then my mom wouldn’t keep harassing me to settle down.” Mark mutters, turning back to his screen. “She’s already talking to me about Hanukkah. It’s six months away!”

“Well, Mark, if you hadn’t sold your soul to bring Openness to The People, you’d understand the importance of holidays –”

“Hey.” Chris interrupts, half expecting Tan to appear in a cloud of smoke. “Don’t joke about that.”

Dustin laughs. “I forgot your dad is a – preacher? Minister? Pastor? What do you guys call them?”

Mark, scrolling through his color-coded schedule, is ignoring them.

“I have to pee,” Dustin says abruptly, interrupting his own monologue about how he doesn’t understand Christianity. He throws his frappuccino, complete with chewed up straw, into the wastebasket as he exits.

“He always does that,” Mark mutters, not looking up from his computer. Chris leans against the wall and watches him.

When Tan had first instructed him to attend Harvard and befriend Mark, he hadn’t asked why. He had grown tired of asking why very early on, knowing he’d find out later. Sometimes he was to watch over someone who had sold their soul; sometimes he was to assist them in whatever they had sold their soul for. But sometimes he was there to make sure something critical happened, often doing his part, even if it was as simple as “discovering” tape on door locks and calling the police.

 

After Mark had launched Facebook and appointed Chris beta tester and Head of PR –

(“You’ll be our secret weapon,” Mark had said, frowning at Chris in a way that meant he was half present and half distracted by Facebook.

“Sure.” Chris had said.

 _You have no idea_ , Chris had thought.) –

Chris had taken the T to meet Tan at the mall, where they had sat in the food court and worked hard to look like normal college students.

“Facebook.” Chris had said, sipping his milkshake. Tan looked at him from across the plastic table. She had been Latina that day, with full lips, tired eyes, long, curling hair and skin a shade or two darker than Eduardo’s. “It’s about Facebook.”

Tan had smiled at him enigmatically, her eyes dark.

“It’s going to be big.” Chris had told her, two conspirators linked together by time. “It’ll hit the West Coast and when it does, there’s no looking back.”

Tan had looked almost disgusted, lips curling into a little _moue_. “Zuckerberg is a human.” She had said, selecting a french fry. “A human – and he has revolutionized how the internet works, how humans communicate. He did it with almost no funding and no help, but he did it.”

“It’s Hedy Lamarr all over again.” Chris had said.

Tan had waved one artful hand impatiently. It was one of the things that something wasn’t quite as it seemed – such gestures originated in the high courts of the world, when men had kings and things were far more brutal. Chris imitated those gestures too, was almost unable to stop. Humanity was frail; reminders of it were precious.

“Watch him.” Tan had ordered, leaning back in her chair and drinking from her own milkshake.

“It’s about Facebook?” Chris had asked this time.

Tan’s smile had been something unknowable. “Perhaps.”

 

And now Chris appreciates what Tan had seen, had struggled with. Mark _is_ human, almost too human in his sullen, withdrawn ways, with the vicious uphill struggle towards redemption and forgiveness – perhaps already given but not fully realized. For too long there has been the fear of Mark shattering on contact, a strong wind splintering him but now he is learning how to bend, is growing strong.

Chris is so fucking proud of him. He wonders if this is how parents feel. He doesn’t ever want to imagine Mark soulless, Mark without the crow caught behind his ribs. He honestly doesn’t think he’ll have too. Mark wouldn’t understand the concept of soul selling; he would just _make_ whatever he wanted happen.

 

Dustin comes back in, almost duck footed in his attempts to hide from investors in an office walled with glass.

“They’re here,” Dustin hisses, trying to peer through the glass without attracting attention. “They’re arriving.”

“You act like you’re going to the gallows.” Chris says, smiling crookedly at Dustin.

“I feel like I am.” Dustin mutters. “Mark yells at people, I provide comic relief and Cheryl charms them. It’s all very stressful.”

“We’re about to turn cash flow positive.” Mark snaps, standing up. “What is there for the investors to complain about?”

“They’ll find something.” Dustin and Chris chorus.

“Take off your hoodie.” Chris adds, eying Mark. “It’s not cold in here.”

“It’s not ‘professional.’” Dustin adds, doing finger quotes and everything. Then: “Hey, Eduardo’s here.”

Chris and Mark both turn to look, Chris’ heart slamming in his chest, and oh. Eduardo _is_ here, beautiful as ever, dressed in a blue striped shirt and black slacks, his smile wide on his face, and –

Chris has been preparing for this moment ever since seeing Eduardo with Leslie, has been preparing to see Eduardo up close for the first time since Hell, has been preparing to sit in a room with him for two hours and not stare at the gaping hole in his ribs where a soul used to sing.

Chris has never quite figured out how it works, the ability to see things on different planes. He can see Eduardo as Dustin sees him and he can see Eduardo as Tan does, can look past flesh and bone, but the point is –

His soul is intact.

There’s a roaring in Chris’ ears and he feels the world drop away, the ground lurching beneath him, the bones in his hands creaking as he makes two fists. For a minute even _Chris Hughes_ threatens to give way.

“Chris?” Dustin’s voice is muffled. Everything is far away and at once too much, too loud, too bright – and Chris snaps back to himself with difficulty, focusing on Dustin’s concerned, gingery face. “Chris, are you alright?”

“I ate a breakfast burrito on my way here.” Chris lies immediately. “It’s not sitting well. Excuse me.”

He moves out of the office quickly, turning away from Eduardo and Eduardo’s smile and Eduardo’s _soul_ , and shoves open the bathroom door with one shoulder. It’s Facebook, so all of the stalls are enormous. Chris takes the one at the end of the row and locks it with trembling fingers before sinking down to the ground, barely caring about the germs and the hard tiled ground beneath his ass. His stomach is lurching and his eyes are burning; he hasn’t felt this human in a long time. He can’t quite breathe, doesn’t need to but feels the loss of it all the same, the shuddering contractions of lungs that are overtaxed and afraid.

 

The thing is – the thing is Chris thought he, _they_ had time. That he would be able to watch Eduardo grow old, maybe have a family, live out the rest of his life in peace. That he would be there when Eduardo passed, shepherding him back to Hell, to the finest room in the Outpost. That he would remain, visiting Eduardo as much as he could, until time’s time ran out.

He knew it was pathetic. He knew it was a shitty plan. But he had made an agreement with himself, long ago, that he wouldn’t break cardinal rules, rules like _thou shall not love a human_ , rules meant for the safety and comfort of all.

He had never heard of anyone getting their soul back before, but if anyone could, it was Eduardo. He broke all rules, melted all hearts.

It was so colossally unfair.

 

Someone comes into the bathroom, their flip flops slapping against the tiled floor. Moments later, there’s a knock on Chris’ stall.

“Chris.” Mark says. “Chris, open the door.”

Chris leans forward and up to unlock the stall door. It swings opening to reveal Mark staring down at him.

Mark looks at Chris for a long moment. Chris just stares up at him, hyperaware of everything: the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, the tile hard under his ass, the toilet about two feet away, the fact he is _sitting on the bathroom floor_.

Mark steps into the stall and locks it behind him, then sits down on the ground opposite Chris. He’s still staring at Chris, face blank but eyes intent and Chris looks away. He can see a sliver of the vanity through the gap between the stall wall and stall door, and focuses on that, on his breathing.

“I used to have panic attacks when I saw Eduardo.” Mark says suddenly, tone conversational. “They started after…” Mark pauses, and Chris looks at him. Mark has always referred to what happened as ‘Eduardo signed the papers.’ There was always a clear denotation of fault.

“After the million member party?” Chris supplies after a minute, and Mark nods, exhaling in what sounds like relief.

“I’d have one when I saw him on the internet, on TV, at a gala.” Mark pauses again. “…At the hospital, but I think that was different.”

Chris knows about Mark’s panic attacks, had talked him through them before. He and Dustin had always known they were related to Eduardo, a deep, firm knowing that hadn’t required much thought.

They had never felt the need to say anything to Mark about it, and Mark had never brought it up.

“They’re mostly gone now.” Mark says, squinting at the wall above and to the left of Chris’ head. “Since he…forgave me.”

Chris doesn’t say anything.

“My therapist thinks I had them because I was ‘guilty and broken hearted.’” Mark sounds slightly frustrated, like after all this time he doesn’t understand that, or perhaps how feeling influence the body. He’s always been all about the mind.

“Yes.” Chris agrees, his voice scraping his throat.

Mark refocuses on him and Chris watches his face move, mouth tucking in. Mark looks so tired.

“You didn’t have a breakfast burrito.” It’s a flat statement.

“No.” Chris admits, half whispering.

They fall into silence. Chris looks down at the floor. He can’t believe Mark is holding up the meeting like this. If he were still Mark’s head of PR he’d be seriously considering doing shots right now.

“Is it because of what I did?” Mark asks, staring at that spot near Chris’ head again. “Because you don’t –”

“No.” Chris interrupts him. “It’s not. I –” he cuts himself off. “Eduardo –” He can’t breathe all over again.

Mark looks at him, then leans his head against the wall of the stall.

Something in Chris’ stomach unknots.

“I see.” Mark says, and he _does_. Chris may be the most obvious motherfucker in the world but no one understands this as much as Mark. It’s one of the reasons Chris didn’t want to tell him; it’s one of the reasons he’s so glad it was Mark who followed him, and not Dustin.

“Are you going to tell him?” Mark asks.

Chris shrugs, looking away. The words slip out by accident, lured out by Mark’s good response. “It’s been – a while.”

“Since college.” Mark says, sounding like he knows, like he _noticed_. He doesn’t sound happy but he doesn’t sound _unhappy_ , he just sounds…quiet.

Chris’ fingers are twisting in his lap. Everything is out of control.

“Tell him.” Mark orders, the words shoving up against the walls of the stall. Chris looks up in surprise. “You’re fucking up.” Mark continues. “Eduardo deserves to be happy.”

“I know.” Chris agrees, which is the problem. He just can’t explain that to Dustin, or Mark, or even Leslie. They only have a piece of the story. The only person who has the full picture is Tan, and she’s the reason he’s in this mess. “I’m sorry.” He adds after a minute, not knowing what else to say.

Mark shakes his head. “Don’t be.” He says, standing. “Come on. My assistant called you a cab. The others know you aren’t feeling well, so you can go back to your hotel and – rest.”

And _think_ lingers unsaid between them.

Then, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Mark sticks out his hand and pulls Chris to his feet before turning towards the door.

“Mark.” Chris says as Mark unlocks the stall door. Mark pauses, half turned away from Chris, spine perfectly straight. “You – thank you.”

He doesn’t say, _you’re a good man_. He doesn’t say, _you’ve come so far._ He doesn’t say, _I’m proud of you._

But Mark hears anyway because his face gentles for a moment, mouth softening.

“Course.” He mutters, and opens the stall door.

 

*

 

Chris doesn’t waste time, slamming his hotel room door shut. “TAN!” He bellows, knowing she’ll hear him, knowing she’s probably monitoring him right now.

Sure enough, Tan materializes between one breath and the next, wearing her neutral form. She watches him calmly.

Chris stares back at her, shaking. He’s escaping himself without meaning too, bits of Chris Hughes flaking off like dead skin. Tan, magnetic and dangerous as ever, calls forth his true nature until he shudders and stops trying to resist her. He can’t resist her, is the thing, can no more resist becoming demonic than he can become human again.

“You gave him his soul back.” Chris says finally. He’s tired of games, tired of it all. He’s done waiting.

“Yes.” Tan nods. “Yes, I did.”

Chris’ fists clench. “How could you?” He demands, violence thrumming through him. “How could you do that?”

“It was mine to give.” Tan lifts her chin proudly, more queenly than he’s seen her in a long time. “I have every right –”

“Bullshit!” Chris almost yells this, remembering not to at the last second. His hotel room isn’t soundproofed. “That is the oldest rule, the oldest bargain – you can’t _break_ it –”

“I can and I did.” Tan’s voice snaps like frost underfoot. Chris can see the snows of the Wastes in her eyes. “My _job_ is to break the rules.”

“But why him?” Chris demands. “Why now? Why _Eduardo?_ ”

Tan wants to look away; Chris can tell by the way the fingers of one brown hand clench. Chris takes a step forward, body falling into the familiar posture of a hunter.

“He was drunk when we made the bargain.” Tan says quietly. Some part of Chris appreciates that she’s explaining herself at all. “He couldn’t consent.”

“That is _bullshit_ ,” Chris snarls. “You’ve never cared before – you don’t get to start caring now –”

“Why does it matter?” Tan snaps. “Why does it matter to you, Chris?”

Chris clamps his jaw shut, nostrils flaring, but Tan calls forth the words anyway. “I thought I had more time.” He whispers. “I thought –”

“You love him, don’t you?” Tan’s gentleness is so much worse than anything else she could have offered him. “Chris.” She stops, sighs. “You’ve always been too human.” She moves closer, takes his arm and leads him over to the bed. She sits, and after a moment Chris does the same.

“You’ve always used your face.” Tan says after a moment. “The face you were born with.”

“Yes.” Chris agrees. He’s changed his hair color, his eye color, a hundred other little things but he’s kept his face. It’s the only thing he has left.

“This is the last time you can use it.” Tan tells him this so gently that for a minute Chris doesn’t understand. “Human technology is getting too advanced for you to use it again. They have facial recognition software, DNA, finger printing, retinal scans –”

“I’ll go insane without my face.” Chris interrupts. There’s a ringing in his ears. “I’m too old, Tan. I can’t lose it.”

“I know.” Tan is still being unspeakably gentle. Chris wonders if this is how she is with Eduardo; kind, tender, gentle. “You’re the oldest one left.” She pauses. “I had you get involved with Facebook because I wanted to see how far along technology was and how long it would take to advance to things like cyber warfare and surveillance. Christy got involved for the same reason. The truth is, we’re running out of time.”

“What do I do?” Chris fidgets with the duvet cover on the bed. “Is this – are you firing me?”

“No.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you want me too?” Tan asks, brow furrowing. “No, Chris – this is an opportunity for you.”

“I don’t understand.” Chris whispers.

“Take a vacation.” Tan folds her hands and places them in her lap. “Instead of doing things for me, live your life – Chris Hughes’ life. Travel the world. Make friends. Take up a profession you enjoy.”

“And at the end?” Chris asks. “When I’m – when Chris Hughes is eighty and dying?”

“Then we’ll talk.” Tan says after a long moment.

“You take everything from me.”

Tan leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, her lips like frost. “I’m sorry.” She murmurs. “But this way you might still get what you want.” And she’s gone.

Chris lays back against the bed, forehead still burning where Tan had kissed him. “How?” He asks the empty room. No one answers.

 

In the end, he goes to see Eduardo, because of course he does. Chris mentally yells at himself the entire time it takes for him to get to Eduardo’s hotel room. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say; he’s not used to acting without waiting for the next phone call from Tan, the next set of orders, the next mission.

 _Take a vacation. Live your life_. He doesn’t know how to do that. He feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Eduardo opens the door and immediately smiles, face lighting up. “Chris!” He exclaims. “Hi!”

Chris swallows. “Hi.” He says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Can I – I’m sorry, I should have called, or texted –”

“No, no, please, come in.” Eduardo says, opening his door wide. “I was going to call you later – Mark said you weren’t feeling well?”

Chris comes in and lets Eduardo shut the door behind him. He doesn’t know what to say, if he should lie or if he should tell Eduardo that he wasn’t prepared to see Eduardo with his soul. Right now it’s all he can focus on, looking past Eduardo’s shirt and skin to the multicolored bird inside, singing a song Chris can’t hear but desperately wants too.

He looks up and sees Eduardo is watching him.

“You didn’t know.” Eduardo says quietly. He sits on the couch opposite the bed. Chris follows, not knowing what else to do. He sits on the other end of the couch and folds his hands in his lap.

“No.” His voice is hoarse. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”

“Neither did I.” Eduardo admits. “Tan told me explicitly that it wasn’t, and then…” he shrugs. “She keeps telling me it’s her job to break the rules.”

“Yeah.” Chris agrees. “So – how have you been?”

Eduardo smiles as he turns to face Chris, leaning against the corner of the couch. He runs a hand through his hair. Now that he’s stopped wearing it slicked back, Chris can see the skull fracture scar the car crash left him with, curving like a horseshoe.

“Good.” Eduardo says. “Things have been really good. I’m working at a firm Divya Narendra and my friend Preeta Virk started – it’s called Lakshmi Ventures. They got engaged in December, actually.”

“Congratulate Divya for me.”

Eduardo smiles. “I will! Yeah, so, I started working there and so did my friend Max. He worked with me at WaMu. But enough about me – how have you been? Did you get my fruit basket?”

“I did, thank you. Did you get my thank you card?” He hadn’t sent a thank you card. “And I like hearing about you. How are your plants?” He sent Eduardo a cactus, once, had Tan take it to Eduardo. She said he liked it. Chris had meant to call Eduardo up and talk to him about it, maybe send him another plant, but he hadn’t had the time, what with the Winklevoss lawsuit.

“Good!” Eduardo’s eyes light up. “They’re really good. Divya and Preeta took care of them while I was – in the hospital. Preeta keeps telling me I have too many, but.” He shrugs. “I’ve started growing vegetables. You should come over sometime, I can cook us dinner.”

Chris smiles. “I’d like that.” Then, unable to stop himself: “So, Preeta and Divya got engaged…what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

Eduardo laughs. “You know, I’m helping Preeta organize her and Div’s wedding and I feel like I’m dating the wedding. I don’t need any more romance in my life. What about you?”

“No.” Chris says. “Demons are forbidden to be with anyone. It’s one of the few rules Tan has for us.”

“But.” Eduardo pauses. “But what if you fall in love with someone?”

“We can’t be with them.” Chris shrugs. “The best we get is to watch them live their life.”

Eduardo shakes his head. “That sounds like torture.”

“That’s kind of the point, Wardo.” Chris wants to put his mouth on Eduardo’s throat. He wants to run his hands along the span of Eduardo’s shoulders and down his arms. He wants to cup Eduardo’s cheek and press his thumb into Eduardo’s dimples. He’s felt lust before but never _this_ , an overwhelming tenderness lodged in his chest like an axe.

“You look happy.” He says, tracing the lines of Eduardo’s face with his eyes.

“I am.” Eduardo says it so simply that Chris knows it’s not a lie. For a moment he can see Eduardo’s thoughts, see _I am, I am, I am_ unfurling in the air. He refocuses on Eduardo’s face and sees that Eduardo is watching him. “You know, Dustin called me up in April. First time I had heard from him in years. He seemed to think I was mad at him – and I was, for a long time.” Eduardo runs his hand through his hair again, almost tracing his scar. “So we caught up, and then out of the blue he asked me if I was happy.”

“Really.” Dustin can honestly go to hell.

“Yeah. I think he and Mark worry about me, but.” Eduardo falters. “They don’t have to. You don’t have to.”

Chris tilts his head. “You know I’m the one that found you, right?”

From the look on Eduardo’s face, it’s clear that he didn’t know. “I thought – I thought Tan must’ve –”

“No.” Chris says shortly. It’s one of those things he’s never going to be able to forget – waking up out of a dead sleep with a sharp pain in his chest and the knowledge that something was horrifically, terrible wrong. He had let that wrongness pull him out of his apartment in the Upper West Side and spit him out on a road in the Adirondacks to find Eduardo. Eduardo, spread-eagled and bloody, the mangled corpse of his Audi slammed against the tree, snow falling slowly in the darkness. Chris had called _911_ while walking along the highway and creating skid marks, then had gotten off the phone and run back to Eduardo’s side to check his pulse and hold his hand. He had stayed with Eduardo until he heard the sirens of the ambulance. At that point he had slipped from one plane to another, to Hell, knowing exactly where Eduardo had gone.

People are supposed to walk the Wastes alone but Chris hadn’t wanted that for Eduardo. He hadn’t wanted any of this for Eduardo – he remembers telling Eduardo that later, on the mountainside – and he wasn’t about to let Eduardo walk the Wastes alone, not when the entire reason Eduardo was in this mess was because he had felt so alone he had sold his soul for a friend.

Eduardo had been face down and spread-eagled on the ground in the Wastes, too, identical to how he was on Earth. Chris had almost thrown up. He wants to throw up now, remembering.

“How did you find me? How did you know?” Eduardo asks, twisting his hands together in his lap. Chris wants to hold them.

“I…don’t know.” Chris says, knowing he sounds like an idiot. “I suppose I’m attuned to you.”

“And the skid marks?”

Chris honestly doesn’t know why he did that. Instinct, maybe, kicking in after a career of being PR manager for Facebook. Maybe he had assumed Eduardo wouldn’t want anyone to know. He hadn’t been sure that Eduardo had purposefully hit the tree until after the Wastes, when Eduardo had been half asleep in bed. When he had said, haltingly, _I think I tried to kill myself_.

 _You did_ , Chris had said then, tucking him into bed.

“I don’t…” Chris says now. “I just thought that you could tell people in your time, if you wanted to tell them at all.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Not – you don’t need to be ashamed of it, you don’t need to hide it, but I wanted…”

Eduardo smiles at him. “I appreciate it.” He seems to mean it, too. “I am okay now, though. I’m even,” he pauses, fishing in his pocket for something, then produces what looks like a red and gold poker chip and throws it at Chris.

Chris catches it. _AA_ is emblazoned on one side of the chip, and _90 days_ is written on the other. “Oh, wow.” Chris says, looking up at Eduardo. Eduardo is watching him nervously. “This is great, Wardo! Congratulations!”

Eduardo beams at him. “Thanks.” He says, ducking his head. “I’m actually five months sober, but they don’t have a chip for that.”

“I’m really, really happy for you.” Chris scoots across the couch to give Eduardo the chip back.

“Thanks. And, I’m seeing, um, a therapist, so.” Eduardo nods awkwardly at him. “It’s all good. I’m handling it. I really am okay.”

“Okay.” Chris says. “Alright. I’m really glad.” They sit there in silence for a minute. Chris wants to touch Eduardo so badly he can hardly contain himself. He feels like he’s shaking with the need to feel Eduardo’s skin on his. “So,” he says awkwardly, “you said you were helping Preeta plan her wedding?”

“Yeah!” Eduardo’s face lights up. “Honestly, I’m never getting married, Chris. Like, an ordinary wedding is stressful enough, but a Punjabi wedding? They go on for _three days_ in America. Preeta says it’s even longer in India, like three or four weeks!”

Chris honestly isn’t listening. He lets Eduardo’s voice wash over him and thinks about kissing him, thinks about biting Eduardo’s lower lip. He thinks about moving until he’s straddling Eduardo, knees on either side of Eduardo’s hips. He’d rest his forehead against Eduardo’s and run his hands along the width of Eduardo’s shoulders before trailing his hands down Eduardo’s sides and untucking Eduardo’s shirt so he could get his hands on Eduardo’s skin. He’d rock their hips together and he’d kiss Eduardo deep and slow and messy, tongue and teeth, but he’d also kiss Eduardo softly. He’d kiss Eduardo’s forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin. He’d be tender, he’d –

“Div and Preeta are taking dancing lessons, you know, if they want to do the American first dance thing.” For one horrifying moment Chris imagines dancing with Eduardo at _their_ wedding and has to blink rapidly. “But they’ve also been teaching me how to dance so I won’t be the odd one out during Bhangra and stuff.”

“They’ve been teaching you Bhangra?” Chris asks. “I want to see.”

Eduardo laughs. “I think I have a playlist on my laptop, hang on.” He goes to fetch his laptop and Chris watches, admiring the line of Eduardo’s back. He’s half hard in his slacks and growing harder but he can’t stop thinking about what he wants to do to Eduardo. Chris shifts uncomfortably. Oh god, what if Eduardo sees? What if he notices?

Eduardo produces his laptop. “Preeta gave me the wedding playlist, hang on…”

The song Eduardo has cued up is lively, and Eduardo, laughing, begins to dance with a series of elaborate arm movements and high steps. Chris knows what Bhangra is, has seen it danced professionally, and what Eduardo is doing is a poor imitation of it. Eduardo has never been very good at dancing.

Eduardo finally collapses back on the couch as a new song starts playing. He’s laughing, wide-eyed and rosy cheeked and Chris hasn’t seen him this happy in a long time.

“That was nice,” he says, trying to be encouraging, and Eduardo just laughs harder.

“Preeta says that for a Brazilian, I have shit rhythm,” he gasps, face creased up in his smile, tongue pressed against his teeth.

“You should show her and Divya that dance you did at Caribbean Night,” Chris says without thinking, and freezes. But Eduardo nods and laughs again, standing up to shimmy his hips and walk forward, like he did all those years ago.

A new song starts up, slow and sweet.

“Oh, this –” Eduardo stops trying to shimmy across the room. “This is their first dance song. I mean, if they decide to that, they’re still deciding since it’s more of an American custom. Let me –”

Chris’ body stands up and walks forward without his permission. Eduardo turns towards him and Chris wraps his arms around him. It’s like Eduardo has been waiting for him because he wraps his arms around Chris’ neck, body slotting against his neatly.

Chris has danced countless times but he’s never done it like this. Eduardo’s cheek is pressed against his and he can feel Eduardo trembling slightly, his bones delicate in Chris’ hands.

“Hi.” Chris says stupidly as they begin to move. Eduardo’s breath catches and he bows his head.

“Chris.” He murmurs, his breath gusting along Chris’ skin, near his ear.

“Ssh,” Chris says as the singer begins to sing.

 _For you, there’ll be no crying._ Chris and Eduardo begin to slowly revolve on the spot, Chris leading and Eduardo obediently following, body relaxing against Chris. _For you, the sun will be shining_.

Chris inhales the smell of Eduardo’s cologne, the same he wore at Harvard. He focuses on the feel of Eduardo’s skin on his, can feel Eduardo’s barely there stubble gently scratching against his skin.

_Cause I feel that when I’m with you, it’s alright. I know it’s right._

Eduardo has stopped trembling. Chris holds him tighter.

_And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score… And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._

Eduardo presses his lips to Chris’ temple and Chris shuts his eyes. The music swells, the guitar echoing in room. They keep dancing. Some part of Chris can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he did this – this is supposed to be Divya’s and Preeta’s song.

The singer begins to sing again. The same small part of Chris that is capable of forming thought right now really appreciates that she’s saying everything he would never, ever say to Eduardo. A few years ago he wouldn’t have imagined saying these words to anyone, wouldn’t have understood the point of them, but now here he is, ruining everything.

 _To you, I would give the world_. The woman sings, voice swelling. _To you, I’d never be cold_.

He hopes, almost savagely, that Preeta and Divya don’t use this song, that they pick a different song or decide not to do a first dance. They don’t get to have this song.

 _Cause I feel that when I’m with you, it’s alright. I know it’s right. And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score._ Now Chris is the one shaking. He wants to run his hands down Eduardo’s ribs. He thinks about Eduardo’s soul, encased safely in his ribcage. Tan once told Chris that souls sing only of wanting the warmth of a hearth and something to love. He wonders, stupidly, if Eduardo’s soulsong is anything like the song they’re dancing too.

_And I love you, I love you, I love you…Like never before._

The song winds down, and as the woman’s voice fades away, Chris forces himself to let go and step away. He has no idea what he looks like right now. He wonders if it’s visibly apparent how much he’s struggling, how much his humanity is being remembered, is rising up to drown him.

Eduardo is staring at him, mouth slightly open and eyes dark and wet. Chris cannot stop himself from reaching up and cupping Eduardo’s cheek like he did in Hell. Eduardo turns his head into Chris’ hand, his lips brushing Chris’ palm, and Chris shudders.

He can’t stay here – if he does he’ll – he has to go.

“Enjoy the wedding.” He manages to say, voice strained to his own ears, southern accent thickening in the way it only does when he’s upset.

He leaves before Eduardo can say anything, moving so fast he’s almost demonic. He shuts the door gently behind him and then books it down the hall. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

 

*

 

“And you just fucking _left?”_ Amy demands.

Chris, sprawled on her bed with one arm covering his face, nods.

“Wow.” Amy says. “Woooow.”

“I was promised a judgment free zone when I called you.” Chris complains. At some point during their friendship he had learned that Amy had only been in Los Angeles for work. She lives in a studio in Bernal Heights, San Francisco. He had called her after leaving Eduardo’s hotel room because she was the only person he could tell the entire story of this…mess, and she had told him to come over and that if he brought food, she would provide the booze.

“Okay, fine.” Amy says. Chris knows from tone of voice alone that she’s crossing her arms. “Since you’re my supernatural mentor I’m not going to tell you how _colossally_ stupid you’re being. I’m not going to tell you that you should have just manned up and kissed him to see if he was interested, and I’m not going to tell you that pining for someone for years is a teeny bit pathetic. Just a bit.”

“Anything else you’re not going to tell me?”

“I don’t get it, dude! Why didn’t you go for it?”

“I explained about the rule.” Chris mutters. “It’s a rule we cannot break.”

“Tan always says it’s her job to break the rules –”

“Do I look like Tan to you?” Chris interrupts, sitting up and glaring at Amy. “I’m not. Tan can apparently do whatever she wants but I can’t. Besides, it wouldn’t make sense for Tan to have a horde that doesn’t obey her.”

“Oh my god,” Amy moans. “You’re being so passive about this. You can’t just lie there and not do anything and pretend you’re being an adult about it. You’re being a child. You need to start doing something.”

“Like what? What, do I drive back there and dramatically declare my – feelings?”

“Wow, you can’t even say it out loud.”

“This is new for me, okay?” Chris flops back down and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t do this. I mean, I’ve had feelings for a few people but not very many, and as soon as I started developing a – a crush, or whatever, I’d just avoid them until it was over.”

“Hang on, back up, what do you mean ‘a few.’ You’re like five million years old, how many is ‘a few?’”

“I’m not _that_ old. And I don’t know…less than twenty total.”

“Across how many years?”

“581, maybe 582. I don’t remember my birthday.”

“Holy shit.” Amy says, putting her beer bottle down with a thunk. “You really don’t do this. You’re like, grey aromantic.”

“What?”

“Um, aromantic means you don’t experience romantic attraction, ever. Grey aromantic basically means you experience it, but very, _very_ rarely.”

“Yeah.” Chris shuts his eyes. “It’s not like I’m that guy from Twilight, okay? So I’ve never had to deal with this – with _being in love_.”

“Good job, champ.” Amy says. “You’re getting there. I’m proud of you.”

“Whatever.” Chris mutters. He wonders if Amy has anything harder than beer.

Amy gets up and walks over to flop down on the bed next to him. “Okay. Since you have shared something personal with me, and I judged you, I’m going to share something personal with you and you can judge the hell out of me.”

“Great.” Chris says, turning his head to look at her. She’s looking at him calmly, hair spread out like a halo.

“I slept with Sean Parker in 2004.”

“ _What?_ ” Chris honestly can’t help himself. “You slept with _him?”_ Then, unable to stop himself: “Is he any good?”

“Great.” Amy says, eyes sparkling. “Really, really good. Oddly generous in bed, for being such a dickwad. You really don’t like him, do you?”

“I was the head PR spokesperson for Facebook for years. He’s my worst nightmare.”

“You want to know the weirdest part?” Amy asks, turning until she’s lying on her back. “He asked to use my computer and that’s how he discovered what Facebook was.”

“You’re shitting me.” Chris says, sitting up and turning so he can look at her. “You’re _shitting_ me.”

“Nope.”

“So, in a way, you were the architect of this entire fucking thing – no, I’m kidding. But _wow_. What are the odds?” Maybe it wasn’t a bizarre coincidence at all, maybe Tan or God or Christy or – no. It was only a matter of time until every single entrepreneur in Silicon Valley came knocking on Mark’s door. Sean Parker simply got there first.

Chris can tell Amy is thinking the same thing he is. She looks at him as he lies back down

“What did you sell your soul for?” She asks. “Like, specifically?”

“I sold it so Francesco Sforza could become Duke of Milan.” Chris says. He’s so tired. Maybe Sforza would have become Duke without him and Chris was an idiot for selling his soul, but he tries not to think about that. “Also, you’re one to talk about specificity.”

“Yeah.” Amy says. “Justice is kind of a broad concept.”

“How are you so sure it exists?” Chris asks. “I mean, when you _really_ get down to it, our concept of justice isn’t nearly flexible enough to cover the majority of situations. Maybe it existed once, but.” He shakes his head. “The world is fucked, you know?”

“You’re taking old and bitter to new heights right now.” Amy says conversationally, staring at the ceiling. “You’re like a rotten lemon.”

“Sorry.” Chris sighs. “I didn’t mean that you were stupid for selling your soul for justice, I just don’t.” He stops.

“You’ve lost faith.” Amy supplies.

“Yeah, by very definition of being _a demon_.” Chris can’t help laughing.

“Hey. Are you going to do what Tan said? Go on vacation?” Amy asks after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah, I guess.” Chris says. “I just don’t know what that means, yet. Maybe I’ll travel…” Maybe he’ll finally go back to Italy and get it out of his fucking system. Might as well see it since this is the last lifetime he gets. “My assistant is going to be pissed if I quit.”

“Leslie?” Amy asks. “Why, because she’ll have to work under Davies instead of you? You should give her my number and we can bitch about our bosses together. I’m riding with some guy named Jefferson now and I _hate_ him.”

“Why not Martinez?”

“He got promoted to Detective.” Amy smiles. “He’s working Special Victims now with Koval.” Amy stands up and stretches. “Martinez is the best cop I know and I’m really happy for him and everything…but he left me to partner with Jefferson, and that is a crime I cannot forgive.” She sighs. “Anyway. I have vodka in the freezer. Want to do shots and watch _Real Housewives?”_

“Absolutely.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is graphic violence and murder in this chapter, just a heads up.

Chris calls Leslie up and tells her he’s quitting while sitting barefoot on a beach. His pants are rolled up to his knees and he’s _really_ hungover, but he figures there’s no point in waiting.

 _“You’re **what**?!” _ She screeches so loudly that Chris, wincing, has to hold the phone away from his ear.

“Please talk more quietly.” Chris adjusts his sunglasses. It’s possible going to the beach while hungover isn’t the smartest choice he’s ever made, but then again, this entire trip has been one big mistake.

 _“Are you hung over? Hang on, I had to duck out of a meeting to take this. Everyone’s there.”_ Chris shuts his eyes. He can hear the rustling background noise that means Leslie’s walking. _“Are you going back to Facebook?”_

“No, I –”

 _“Are you going to work at Lakshmi Ventures?”_ Right, Lakshmi Ventures, where Eduardo works.

“Uh, no.” Chris digs his toes into the sand. He took two aspirin and chugged a bottle of Gatorade before calling Leslie but he still feels awful. “I actually think I’m going to travel.”

 _“Where?”_ Leslie sounds slightly incredulous. Chris doesn’t blame her. Quitting his prestigious, high paying job during the recession in order to travel is a stupid move. The problem is, Chris doesn’t really enjoy his job.

“Europe? Maybe China, maybe Russia.” Definitely Italy.

 _“Are you okay?”_ Leslie asks, voice softening. _“Was the meeting –”_ she pauses. Chris mentally substitutes ‘the meeting’ for ‘seeing Eduardo.’

“It was fine.” He lies. “I’m just kind of burned out, you know? I should have taken a break after the campaign, but when the market crashed I wanted to go find another job immediately.”

 _“Oh, okay.”_ Leslie says.

Chris stands up, brushing the sand off of his slacks, and walks towards the ocean. He used to come to this beach when he worked at Facebook. He’d come after whatever crisis had been handled and he’d throw rocks into the water until he stopped being mad.

 _“God, Neal is going to be so mad when I tell him this. Fuck, and I’m going to have to work under Davies.”_ Leslie sounds like she’s thinking out loud.

Chris winces. “Let me tell Neal. And, I know, I’m sorry. I would recommend he be fired but it would cause a lot of drama I don’t want to deal with.”

_“It’s fine. Maybe I’ll get promoted.”_

“I’m going to recommend it.” Chris says. “Maybe you should go see if Lakshmi Ventures is hiring. Eduardo seems really happy there.”

 _“Maybe I will.”_ Leslie says. _“So – do you need any help planning your trip?”_

“Yeah, I would appreciate that.”

 _“I helped my sister plan her honeymoon, I’m great at this. Just send me a list of places you want to – hang on, I think someone’s here.”_ A pause, and then, slightly muffled: _“Andre? What are you doing? We’re supposed to be at the meeting.”_

Chris hears an indistinct mumble. “Leslie –” He tries to say.

 _“What the fuck was that?”_ Leslie asks, clearly not talking to him. _“Are you – is there – please tell me there’s no one under that desk.”_

“Oh my god!” Chris snaps, yanking off his sunglasses.

 _“I am going to have to call you back.”_ Leslie says tightly. Right before she ends the call Chris hears her say, _“No I cannot ‘keep my voice down!’ You can’t fuck someone in the office just because the rest of us are in a fucking meeting, you piece of –”_

“Wow, okay. I – wow.” Chris says to the empty beach as he pockets his phone and puts his sunglasses back on. He hopes Andre gets fired.

 

*

 

It’s surprisingly easy to organize his life. He flies back to New York and plans out his trip that evening. The next day he goes into work and does Neal the courtesy of sitting down with him to resign instead of calling or emailing.

Leslie comes in as he’s packing up his office. She’s dressed to kill and is carrying a cardboard box similar to the one he’s using to pack up.

“Did you know that Neal is Andre’s maternal uncle?” She asks, sniffling and blinking rapidly.

 _“No,”_ Chris breathes in horror.

“Yeah.” Leslie tilts her head up and shuts her eyes for a minute. “He gets to keep his job, even though I caught him fucking an intern at his cubicle. So, I quit.”

Chris sets down his paperweight and goes to hug her.

“I’m going to start crying if you keep hugging me.” She murmurs into his shoulder.

“Where will you go?” Chris asks, patting her on the back and then withdrawing to finish packing up his desk. “Do you want to go to California? I can call Dustin, or call some of my contacts in DC – hell I can even call Eduardo if you want to –”

“No.” Leslie clears her throat, still blinking rapidly. “It means the world that you’re willing to do that for me, but. I think I’m going to go back to being a barista. People need them even in a recession and I was much happier.”

“Okay.” Chris says. He looks over her shoulder. Jamal is watching them, looking worried. “But if you need anything, call me, okay? I mean it.”

“Yeah.” Leslie nods. “I will, I promise.”

“Good. Want to get out of here?”

“More than anything.”

Andre watches them as they walk out of Chris’ office. Chris glares at him, letting Cristoforo peek out, and Andre blanches.

Jamal, who has gotten up to walk them out, grins approvingly. “Scary.” He says as he slings an arm around Leslie’s shoulders. “I like it.” He takes the elevator with them and walks them to the doors, hugging both of them. “Take care of yourselves.”

“Hey,” Chris says as they walk out. “Want to share a cab?”

“Only if you’re paying.” Leslie says, hefting her box onto her hip.

“Of course I’m paying.” Chris says, laughing. “C’mon.”

 

*

 

_July_

 

He starts out in London.

It was hard to plan out a trip as someone who hasn’t experienced the history of the world or the growth of Europe, so he plays tourist and avoids the churches. He goes to the Tower of the London and thinks of all of those who were locked in it, Kings and Queens and victims and traitors. He can sense all of their misery, like a mold that cannot be cleaned away. Buckingham Palace is better because the constant movement of people through it helps combat the history. He likes the filigree, the uniforms, the pomp and circumstance. Eventually it starts feeling too familiar so he has to take his leave. He considers going to the National Gallery; he knows he could lose himself there for hours but he’s scared, too, of seeing familiar faces preserved by oil and canvas. He ends up going to the Museum of Natural History, which he likes; he considers going to the British Museum but ends up just walking up and down the streets, paved and cobblestoned alike.

He likes the lions and fountains of Trafalgar Square. He lingers there for hours, walking the maze, people watching, taking in the buildings and the buses. He watches the distant curving outline of the London Eye. When he had been planning out his trip he thought he might like to go on it and see London bright against the night, but the urge dies when he sees that everyone else in line are families or couples. It just makes him think of things he’s trying to avoid, things he cannot have, so he stalks back his hotel and lies awake for hours.

 

Chris dreams of the Wastes on the plane from London to Moscow. He dreams of snow that stretches as far as the eye can see him all around him, stretches up to meet a similarly white and empty sky. He cannot turn around, can only walk forward, and though he thinks someone is next to him he can’t see them. They’re being chased, that much he knows; he and whoever is with him are being hunted by something hidden deep in the snow.

It makes him come awake with a muffled yell, alarming the flight attendant who had been trying to wake him up for the past five minutes. Chris accepts the offered bottle of water and shivers beneath his blanket.

It’s ridiculous, to dream of the Wastes again. That wasn’t even his Wastes or the one he walked with Eduardo. Besides, he’s never going back.

Or maybe he is; maybe Tan will send him there when this lifetime is up. Maybe these dreams are trying to prepare him.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom to wash his face. When he looks in the mirror he sees how wild his eyes are and has to shut them and breathe deeply to calm his frantic heart.

 

Russia is shockingly hot after his nightmares. He both likes and dislikes how enormous it is, allowing for both anonymity and over exposure. The cathedrals scattered pell-mell through the city are easy enough to avoid; he inspects Lenin’s Mausoleum and the Kremlin Armory before pausing to admire the Kremlin itself. It looks like a fantastical ginger bread house with candy turrets. He takes a selfie with it in the background and uploads it to Facebook before strolling from Red Square to Manezhnaya Square. There are newlyweds dancing under the fountains. He read in a guidebook that it’s tradition to do so, that it will grant them good luck, and he stays there for long minutes watching them, covetous of their happiness, smiling as the laughing bride kisses her new husband.

When he gets back to his hotel he sees that Mark has liked his selfie, even though it must be very early in California.

The next day he buys a postcard and a stamp off of a kiosk and scrawls “ _get some sleep”_ on it before adding Mark’s address. It’ll take weeks to reach Mark but he knows it will make Mark scowl and Dustin laugh so he sends it anyway.

 

*

 

_August_

 

Finland and Sweden and Norway sort of blend together after the sun stops setting at all. Chris is suffused with light; he half fears that he’ll be burned to a husk, secrets and hell flushed out of him. He can’t sleep, even with the black out curtains and complimentary sleep masks offered by his hotel. When he does sleep he dreams of the wastes, the snow falling endlessly with no clear demarcation between sky and land.

He likes the zoo in Stockholm and the Vasa Museum, likes the ships and reminders of history he took no part in. He goes to the ABBA museum and takes pictures for Dustin. His favorite place in Oslo is the skiing museum. He thinks maybe it’s the last museum he’ll go to on this trip, for all that he likes history, for all that he’s a tourist. He feels worn out by it all.

In Helsinki he goes to the amusement park called Linnanmäki, which is something he can’t pronounce even when the hotel desk attendant spends five minutes trying to teach him.

“You are American, yes?” Perttu, the desk attendant asks.

“Yes.” Chris smiles. “I learned French and Latin in high school but I know Finnish isn’t Latin based.”

Perttu laughs. “Finnish is uniquely difficult. Don’t worry, we learn English in school so if you ask for directions to Linnanmäki and just say ‘amusement park’ people will know what you’re talking about.”

“Thanks.” Chris says wryly. “I have a friend who learned how to speak Mandarin, which is pretty difficult. Maybe I’ll tell him to learn Finnish next.”

“You should!” Perttu says, writing down directions to Linnanmäki in tiny, perfect handwriting. “Maybe you can both learn. Finnish is the most beautiful language, I think.” He finishes writing out the directions and hands them to Chris. “Here you go.”

Chris still gets lost getting to the amusement park, but not as lost as he would have without Perttu’s directions, and Perttu is right: his second cab driver knows exactly what he’s talking about when he says ‘amusement park.’

 

After Finland he flies to Madrid. He can’t bring himself to eschew the museums here, not when it comes to art; he spends long hours in the Prado Museum and Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum. He does see faces he recognizes, faces of people he knew and worked for and faces of people he worked against, after Spain conquered Italy. He’s almost surprised to find that after all this time he can ignore it all and focus instead on the brush strokes.

Madrid is so warm in August that Chris foregoes the sprawling _Buen Retiro Park_ for visiting the Royal Palace and the water bound Temple of Debod, marveling both at it’s beauty and at the arrogance it must have took to take an _entire temple_ from Egypt just to stick it in the middle of a European city. He also seeks out the _Plaza de Cibeles_ , admiring the marble sculpture of Cybele as she stands astride an elaborate fountain.

Some days he just sits in cafes that border various plazas and sips ice water as he people watches. It’s too hot to move, but too hot to sleep and his bed is too small; he has no idea how to nap in this weather. He takes to walking through the city as dusk falls, squinting up at the roofs of the buildings and at the sky beyond.

Amy calls when he’s eating tapas one night and admiring the nightlife, letting the sights and sounds wash over him.

“What’s up?” he asks, checking his watch as he answers. Either Amy is taking a late lunch or something is wrong.

 _“Hey.”_ Amy says, subdued enough that he knows it’s the second one. _“Where are you?”_

“Madrid.” Chris answers her in French. He’s learning that a lot of people in Europe understand bits and pieces of English and he thinks this is a conservation that shouldn’t be overheard. “Is everything okay?”

Amy sighs. _“No.”_ She says. _“The guy I rode with for my first year, Martinez – I’ve told you about him, right? He died on Thursday. Him and his partner, Koval.”_

“Shit.” The couple next to him look up at that. Why is it that everyone knows curse words in other languages and nothing else? “I’m so sorry.”

 _“He was the best cop I’ve ever known.”_ Amy says conversationally, which is how Chris knows she’s trying not to cry. _“One of the very first things he told me was that there are always going to be dirty cops. There are a lot of players in San Francisco – gangs, cartels, the Aryan Brotherhood, other organized crime…it all adds up to dirty cops, cops being asked to look the other way.”_ She pauses. Chris can hear her breathing echoing down the phone line. He rummages in his wallet for enough euros to cover his meal. _“I sound like a crime drama.”_ Amy continues. _“But it’s true, he was right. And when the market fell –”_ she cuts herself off with an unhappy noise. _“I get it, okay? We’re in the worst recession we’ve had since the Great Depression. Money is tight. But there’s a new player now, and they have money, and they’re going after the cops that really need the money. Jefferson, my partner? He has four kids. His wife unexpectedly had triplets. Of course they’d approach him.”_ She pauses again. Chris, having left the café he was at, is walking through the dark streets of Madrid, away from the nightlife centers, away from the people.

_“When I think about it like this, it makes sense. I don’t blame Jefferson or any of the others for agreeing to be on payroll. They have mouths to feed and bills to pay. But then the reality of the situation hits: they’re willingly turning a blind eye to crimes, big crimes, and people are suffering for it. And I can’t excuse that, I could never excuse that, I just –”_

“Did they kill Martinez and Koval? Whoever this new player is, did they kill them?” Chris asks, cutting her off.

 _“Yes.”_ Amy’s voice goes taut, her grief stretching her almost beyond what she can take _. “Oh, they made it look like an accident, but I could tell. A car crash is a really easy way to cover up a murder – Martinez taught me that, you know. It was almost like he knew what was going to happen.”_ She sighs. _“He and Koval were working a human trafficking case. They were getting close, getting really close to finding out who was running the operation. It’s not enough to rescue the victims; you have to shut the whole thing down. They were approached and asked to look the other way – it says here, ‘We was approached by a third party, we declined’ – so they killed him. And, god, how could anyone turn a blind eye to this?”_

“Amy.”

_“I’m going after them, I have to. I think that’s what he and Koval wanted, because they had a courier deliver a copy of the file to my apartment last night.”_

“You have to be smart about it.” Chris says instead of asking her not to do it at all. He knows better than that. He knows she won’t listen. “You have to bring other people into this – detectives, maybe your Captain.”

 _“I don’t know who I can trust.”_ Amy lets out a sob. _“I don’t know what to do, Chris. I wish I could walk away from this. I thought that being a cop was part of getting justice for Maggie, I thought selling my soul was why I managed to graduate the academy but the day Cory was arrested I saw Tan and she told me that it wasn’t, that I did that all by myself. And now I just – wish I had gone another route, if there is one. I should have made my own way.”_

“There are so many,” Chris tells her gently, pausing at the edge of a plaza to lean against a building. “You could be a lawyer or a victim’s advocate or work at a nonprofit or volunteer somewhere. Justice is –”

_“I know, I know, broad and unspecific and possibly non existent.”_

“I was going to say multifaceted.” Chris scrubs a hand over his face. “Tan wouldn’t have let you sell your soul for something that didn’t exist.”

 _“I just feel.”_ Amy stops. _“I just feel like there are so many people like Cory, and no matter what I do or what profession I choose or how hard I work, there’s no way to stop them.”_

“There are a lot of people like Cory.” Chris agrees. “There are a lot of bad people. But there are so many good people, Amy. There are so many people like you. We just don’t hear about them as much.”

 _“You’re being unexpectedly positive.”_ Amy says after a beat. _“Has Europe revitalized your soul?”_

Chris laughs. “If anything could, it would be Europe. It’s really nice to not be on Wallstreet…very stress free.”

“ _Yeah, yeah, whatever.”_ Amy sounds like she’s smiling, and Chris mentally congratulates himself.

“Listen,” he says. “If you want my help with this – if you want me to sniff out who these guys are, just let me know.”

 _“Sometimes I think I can do that.”_ Amy says. _“Like, sometimes I think I can sense badness or crime or whatever.”_

Chris stays quiet, controlling his breathing so it doesn’t hitch.

 _“Yeah, when I asked Tan about it she just smiled at me.”_ Amy sounds resigned. _“I know you can’t talk about it. But it is a thing, isn’t it? It’s not normal.”_

“You’re not normal.” Chris makes sure to sound like he’s teasing. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

 _“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”_ Amy says dryly. _“Okay, I have to go to the funeral.”_

“Keep me updated, okay?” Chris asks.

 _“I will.”_ Amy promises and disconnects.

Chris looks up at the sky, tinged orange with light pollution, before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He wants to go to San Francisco and bash heads together until he knows who killed Martinez and Koval. He wants to go to New York and put his mouth on Eduardo’s dick. He wants to call Tan up and yell at her. He wants to let Cristoforo out and run wild.

He does none of these things. He goes back to his hotel, with it’s too small bed, and lays awake until daybreak.

In the morning he comes downstairs armed with his luggage and ready to check out and finds a group of travellers clustered in the lobby, armed with trekking poles and hiking shoes and backpacks.

One of them, an elegant black woman with an afro, sees Chris looking and comes over to him, trekking poles bundled under one arm.

“ _Vas a hacer el peregrinaje?”_ She asks.

Chris frowns, skin prickling. “Sorry,” he says. “English?”

“Oh!” The woman exclaims, nodding. “Um – are you the walker?”

“What?”

The woman frowns again, then motions like he’s walking. “Uh, Road? St. James?”

“ _Camino de Santiago?”_ Chris asks. The woman’s eyes light up and he nods. Chris shakes his head. “No, I’m going to France. Um. _No, voy a Francia?_ Good luck!”

The woman smiles and walks back to his group. Chris laughs to himself. He’ll have to tell Tan next time he sees her – she’ll get a kick out of the image of him making a holy pilgrimage.

 

*

 

_September_

 

Before the revolution, Paris was one of Chris’ favorite cities. Now, it makes him twitchy. The years and all the people who have lived here since have diminished the overwhelming feeling of death slightly but it still makes Chris’ stomach roil. History has a way of building up like scum on a bathtub; even if you can’t see it, you can feel it.

Chris avoids the churches so old and holy they almost hum in Chris’ mind, _Notre-Dame_ and _Sainte-Chapelle_ chief among them. He avoids the catacombs, too, not wanting to immerse himself in that much death and fear. He climbs through the stumbling cobblestoned hill of _Montmartre_ but avoids _Sacré Cœur;_ instead he sits under the gnarled trees in _Place du Tertre_ to people watch _._ He tries not to talk, not wanting to be identified as a tourist. People can identify him anyway, though he doesn’t know how; perhaps he’s spent too long as an American. He walks like an American, smiles with his teeth, wears his hair and suits differently.

He’s sorry that he wasn’t in Paris for the Impressionists, thinks this over and over again as he wanders through the _Musée de l'Orangerie_. From there he walks down the _Champs-Élysées_ , dodging out of the way of families with kids and tour buses. He walks all the way down to the _Arc de Triomphe_ and strains his neck looking up at it. He takes pictures of everything so he can show them to Amy. She had mentioned, once, that she had family in Nice and had studied abroad in Paris for a semester. He wonders what her favorite places are; he wonders if she’s still alive. He walks through the _Louvre_ and hopes, in a terrible, chest burning sort of way, that she is.

When he’s done being a tourist he buys postcards and sets about writing to Amy and Leslie and Jamal and Dustin and Mark. He sits in a café on the Seine with his postcards and tries not to people watch. He’s had his fill of it; he’s tired of being reminded of how alone he is. Instead he stares down at his espresso and an empty postcard and thinks about writing to Eduardo.

_Dear Eduardo._

Dusk is falling and the hordes of people are thinning to couples strolling along, arm in arm. The reflection of the streetlights on the Seine’s murky surface looks like the bronze glow of Eduardo’s skin.

The café closes and Chris walks back to his hotel, shoulders bowed against the falling night. The people he passes barely see him.

An army of gardeners plant tulip bulbs everywhere in Brussels, their uniforms bright splashes against the grey and brown buildings. Chris rents a bicycle and bikes through the city, pausing in front of the Atomium, then in front of the European Union building. It looks like the back of a turtle with sky bridges for legs.

There’s enough security for him to dismount and pretend to fidget with his bike, clucking at the perfectly kept chains, the gear and inflated tires. It occurs to that there’s no reason to be here. He has no mission. His hands shake.

One of the security guards is soulless. He looks at Chris and doesn’t know him. Chris wonders if he’s here for a job or if it’s unrelated, if he sold his soul for something non political.

Chris gets back on his bike and leaves.

 

In Berlin the leaves make every tree look afire. They pop against the grey concrete of the city. Berlin has always seemed grey to him.

He forgets how long it’s been since the fall of the Berlin Wall, just as he used to forget how long it had been since it was erected. He goes to it anyway, walks along the double row of cobblestones like any other tourist. He hasn’t been to Berlin since 1945. He never saw the wall but he can imagine it – like if Hadrian was a fascist instead of an emperor.

He goes to the gallery and follows the painted stories. He gets a brezel and sits down at a bench, listens to the German. It’s different now – more slang. Less talk about war and death and how to hotwire a car.

Dustin calls one night as Chris is eating dinner. Chris counts backwards as Dustin talks to him and realizes Dustin must be on his lunch hour.

 _“Mark and I are moving in together.”_ Dustin chews obnoxiously in Chris’ ear.

Chris raises his eyebrows. “Really? Since when?”

_“Like two days ago. It’s lonely to live by yourself in a big empty house. I know that’s part of adulthood or whatever but I hate it and so does Mark, and we live really close together anyway, so we decided to just move in together. I’m moving into his house.”_

“Are you going to pay him rent?”

 _“I offered to and Mark gave me a death stare so I don’t think so?”_ Dustin sighs. _“By the way, he loved your postcard from Russia. And by ‘loved’ I mean ‘hated.’ How do you manage to mother hen him from across the globe? What’s your secret?”_

“Pure intuition.” Chris takes a bite of his roast chicken. “I knew you’d get a kick out of it.”

 _“You know who didn’t get a kick out of it?”_ Dustin asks. _“Eduardo. He gets sad whenever we mention you. He looks like a tiny deer who saw his entire family get murdered.”_

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought we banned all jokes about Eduardo being a baby deer. A sort of kill order, if you will.”

“ _Was that a pun?!”_ Dustin exclaims. _“Wait, no, you’re not wiggling out of this one. What did you do? Why is Eduardo sad?”_

“What?” Chris asks, setting down his knife and fork. “The connection is bad, I can barely hear you. What did you say?”

_“Wow, you really don’t want to talk about it.”_

“I still – I still can’t hear you. There’s static – what did you say?”

 _“You asshole.”_ Dustin says, but he’s laughing. _“C’mon, Chris, what happened –”_

Chris hangs up on him. The people at the table next to him are staring at him. Chris smiles at them before tucking into his dinner.

It begins to rain as he walks back to his hotel. He tilts his head up to the sky and sighs, taking in the smells of the city and savoring the way the rain dampens all sound and activity.

 _Dear Eduardo,_ he thinks over and over as he walks through the rain. _Dear Eduardo._

Prague is stately, like Paris. The baroque buildings claw at the skyline. Chris memorizes the architecture and the red roofs.

He climbs up the river embankment and squints at the Dancing House.

“How incredibly modern!” A British tourist exclaims behind Chris. He turns to look at them – short, squat, curly haired and gauged ears. Chris has never had an ear for British accent but he thinks this person is from the North.

The tourist sees Chris looking and speaks directly to him.“S’nicknamed Fred and Ginger, see?”

“It’s hideous.” Chris tells them, stuck in a foul mood he hasn’t been able to shake since Paris. “Better to let the bombed ruins stand untouched forever than build this monstrosity.”

The tourist goggles at him. Chris takes his leave.

The Old Town Square stretches between buildings. Chris lurks at its corners. It is like Moscow all over again; the churches, the people, the buildings on each side. It’s over exposed. Chris’ skin crawls.

He wanders over to the astrological clock and peers up at it, at the jaunty skeleton symbolizing death. According to an informational pamphlet provided by his hotel, there are also figures for the Apostles, Vanity, a Turkish man, a Miser, and a golden rooster. Legend states that the first cock-crow of the morning forces ghosts and devils to flee Prague.

Chris is here to tell you that legends are almost never true.

Zurich’s houses all look like someone had taken their upper floor and stretched it upwards. The roofs are orange instead of red, bright against the sea. Chris walks along endless bridges and listens to the unfamiliar cadences of Swiss-German. He goes to museums and finds himself disliking the modernity of the art, failing to grasp the differences between modern and post modern. He thinks about calling up Mark and asking him to explain; Mark had never gone to his art history class but had passed all of his exams, so he might know the answer. Instead he buys a postcard at the Rietberg – a museum with art he did like – and sends it to Mark.

He walks along the rim of the lake and stares at the mountains, at the hills of grain, at the clouds that blur the edges of everything.

 _Dear Eduardo,_ he thinks for the thousandth time. Distance prompts him to finish the thought: _I’m tired of missing you._

*

 

_October_

 

Sondrio is a fucking disaster.

Oh, it’s beautiful enough, humble and historic amongst the Alps but it’s not _his_ anymore, hasn’t been since he marched off with Sforza.

He walks the streets in search of something familiar: Masegra Castle, still sitting high atop the hill; the palace with it’s rough stones and slotted windows; the Piazza; the historic district; the rough stone walls lining the vineyards and the river. Things that look familiar in a hazy way, as if from a dream. Even the language is half familiar, Lombard instead of standard Italian, and Chris is glad to hear it for all that he only recognizes two words in five.

He doesn’t understand _why_ it’s so hard until he realizes he came here looking for the clearing he saw in Eduardo’s Wastes, a clearing that he could still get to from here, sure, but it’s not the clearing he cares about.

There’s no point thinking in circles, so Chris goes to Milan instead.

 

Milan is – well. There aren’t enough words in any language, alive or dead, to describe Milan.

All Chris can think about is Sforza and how proud he’d be to see Milan as it is: beautiful, wealthy, full of art and culture, music and noise. The best city in the North, no matter what Turin thinks.

Chris thinks about this while a fist squeezes his heart down to a third of it’s former size, which he doesn’t really mind; it’s been too big for too long. Besides, he’s tired of thinking inward; he focuses outward.

He throws himself into tourist mode again, tours the ruins and the museums, the eateries and the gardens and the parks, the shopping strips. He combs through the art galleries at a more leisurely pace, starting with the most recent art and working backwards.

He dedicates days to the Sforza Castle and it’s museums, haunting it once more. He eschews the educational signs and pamphlets for knowledge in his own brain. He knows the armory better than any historian alive or dead; he knows the hallways, the frescos, the furniture; he knows the paintings and their painters. He could correct mistakes, clear up controversies and debates but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to. He wants a way to turn back time.

 

Some days he simply walks the streets, purposefully getting lost, purposefully covering miles. At nights he does the same thing but as Cristoforo, senses escaping his skin. He relearns the darkness in the city, from the pockets that distort buildings and quarters to the thin trails that never lead to anything good.

The Duomo is heavy in Chris’ mind in either form, buzzing in the base of his skull. He’s read all about it; he knows it took six hundred years to complete and that it has 136 adoptable gargoyles and is the 5th largest cathedral in the world.

For his first two weeks he avoids it. Half way through the third he finds himself in the square before it. The sun is setting, turning the intricately carved marble of the Duomo shades of yellow and pink. Chris stops in front of the monument to the king and studies the thing.

It’s – big. Overwrought, in his opinion, and almost ugly. But then again, he knows nothing of churches outside of his art history classes. All is he knows is that it’s painful to be this close to it.

He turns to go and walks straight into something that burns.

“Scusi! Scusi!” Chris hears as he trips over his own feet and falls down in his haste to back away. He blinks, shaking his head, and looks up to see a priest, dressed in a black cassock, white collar, and rosary, offering him a hand up.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, repressing the urge to recoil. He doesn’t take the priest’s hand but instead pushes himself up and dusts off his suit. “I didn’t see you.”

“No, I’m sorry, it was my fault.” The priest, middle aged and serious faced, says in lightly accented English. He’s staring at Chris. Chris forces a smile. “You are American?”

“Yes.” Chris says reluctantly. “I’m just visiting.”

The priest smiles. “Me too, Mr…?”

“Hughes. Chris Hughes.” Chris sticks his hand out for the priest to shake.

“Father Forti.” The priest says, shaking his hand. “I’m visiting, that is. I teach at the seminary near Varese. I’m here doing some research for a class on the history of the Archdiocese here.”

“Sounds like an interesting class.” Chris lies, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Well, I better be heading back to my hotel, but –”

“Excuse me.” The priest interrupts. “I’m sorry. It’s just – you look so familiar. Have we met before?”

Chris blinks. Father Forti is still staring at him, brow slightly creased, and if he wasn’t a priest Chris would think – no. There’s no way.

“I don’t think so.” Chris says, forcing another smile. “I just have one of those faces, I guess.” Belatedly, he thinks about Facebook, but he doesn’t feel like explaining. “Now, I have to go, but it was nice meeting you.”

“You, too.” Father Forti says. “I hope to see you again.”

There’s nothing he can say to that so he just nods before heading off, tucking his nose into his collar, skin prickling along his spine.

 

He calls Amy up and tells her all about it just to hear her sigh at him from half a world away.

 _“You do realize you’re famous, right?”_ she asks.

“I’m below a D list celebrity at best.”

_“Maybe this priest is really into technology and that’s how he recognized you. That or he was trying to hit on you.”_

“In front of a cathedral?” Chris asks, even though he had thought that for about half a second.

 _“In front of a cathedral.”_ Amy agrees. _“Stop freaking out.”_

 

He spends three weeks in Milan. Honestly, he doesn’t know where to go afterwards. Milan is _it_ for him – the reason he sold his soul. The place he haunted for hundreds of years. The reason he wanted to go to Europe.

Why does he need to leave at all? He could apply for a visa, could stay and relearn the city again. Sure, there are more churches to avoid than in New York or Palo Alto or Boston, but he’s missed being here.

He thinks of Mark and Dustin and Amy and Leslie, all back in the States and waiting for him to return. He thinks of –

_No._

He shoves those thoughts down. He might be running away from his problems but then again these problems aren’t ones he’s supposed to have, so.

He goes back to the Sforza Castle, unable to stop himself, and strolls through the gardens there. They lead into a park that he’s heard is old, though it’s certainly newer than he was. The park wasn’t there when he left Milan.

As he buys a Panini from a vendor in the park his phone buzzes. Chris walks to the nearest bench to check it.

 

Eduardo Saverin, 1:25 pm

_I miss you_

 

Chris looks at the phone for a minute before carefully setting both it and his Panini down on the bench so he can bury his face in his hands.

 

He gets shit faced. That’s the only correct term for this situation – he gets full on, fall down drunk. It takes him a little while to notice the people in his chosen bar are dressed up in costumes and that there are a couple jack-o-lanterns in the windows. Halloween isn’t a big thing in Italy as far as Chris knows but it still sends an unpleasant jolt through him. He’s used to hunting on this night but there’s no hunt to be had.

Eduardo’s text mocks him.

He gets another drink.

Is this another fruit basket? Another attempt at communication?

Does Eduardo miss his friend or – Chris cuts himself off. He counts out the time difference on his fingers. Eduardo sent that text late, late at night. Is he okay? He must be – Chris would know if something was wrong.

He’s over complicating this. Eduardo misses him, misses him enough to send him a text during the dark, honest hours of the night. Chris wants to drop everything, wants to go to him and press his face against Eduardo’s neck. He wants to hold Eduardo in the middle of Eduardo’s apartment. He wants to go there and not have to leave.

Chris signals the barman for another drink. He thinks back to sitting in the Facebook conference room with Dustin and explaining to Dustin why he didn’t date; how he didn’t really understand the difference between love and friendship. He thinks he gets it now, because his chest _hurts_ whenever he thinks of Eduardo. It feels like his chest is going to cave in; it feels like a bullet tearing through his body; it feels like he’s burning alive.

Chris is aware that he’s being the difficult one, here. He could go back to New York. He could go see Eduardo, maybe have lunch with him again. They could pretend nothing has changed. They could pretend that the dance hadn’t happened. But Chris doesn’t want to, can’t bear to. The dance is something he never wants to forget, for all that he’s kicking himself over it. The dance is a very small part of Eduardo that Chris gets to keep. The dance, and the wastes, and Eduardo with him on the mountainside, his fingers gentle as he touched each of Chris’ scars.

Chris, remembering it, shudders.

 

So maybe he’ll go back to New York. It’ll be good to check up on his apartment, to see Leslie. Chris tries to plan it out but everything feels muddled. He sits at the bar and stares down at the wooden counter until last call comes. He’s too drunk to pretend not to understand the Italian.

He settles his tab and makes his way out of the bar. The streets are dark and empty. Chris puzzles over that as he tries to remember what direction his hotel is in. He has to remind himself that Italy doesn’t care about Halloween, that it’s 2009 instead of 1449.

He drags his hand along the stone of the building next to him as he sets off towards his hotel, his phone burning a hole in his pocket. He should text Eduardo back. He misses Eduardo too; surely Eduardo knows that. Surely Eduardo knows why Chris is avoiding him. Eduardo keeps messing it up. Chris wants to pry his brain out of his skull. He’s so tired of thinking about this. He’s too drunk to stop himself from thinking about it.

He trips and falls over – something, and when he’s on the ground trying to figure out how to stand up again, someone sticks a hand into his field of vision.

“ _Scusi,”_ comes a familiar voice. Chris blinks and looks up into Father Forti’s serious face.

 _“Grazie.”_ He says automatically, taking the offered hand. It burns and Chris forces himself not to flinch.

“I thought you were American?” The priest says after Chris has stood up and dropped his hand. Chris frowns at him for a second, trying to figure out what he means. “Your accent is very good.”

“Oh.” Chris says. “I’ve been in Milan for the past few weeks, so I’ve picked some stuff up.”

“Were you on your way to your hotel?” Father Forti asks. “I’m heading in that direction, can I walk with you?”

Chris tries to figure out how to say ‘no’ without being rude and can’t. “Sure.” He says, gritting his teeth

They set off, Chris steering them so they’re walking under street lamps. He cannot afford to be drunk and alone with a priest in a dark street.

“I didn’t expect to run into you again.” He says, glancing at Father Forti. “Especially not outside a bar.”

“Sometimes even priests need a drink.” Father Forti says it like he’s telling Chris a secret. He’s fondling the cross on his rosary absently. “But no – I stayed late at the Duomo doing research for my class.” He glances at Chris. “Would you like to hear about it?”

The Duomo is nowhere near here. Chris starts to sweat.

“I know that there’s a rite native to the archdiocese.” Chris says, trying to shake off the alcohol in his bloodstream.

“That’s what I’ve been researching. But through my research I stumbled on a legend that’s been passed down through the Church lore.”

“Really.” Chris says, filled with both the need to know what Father Forti knows and the need to leave.

Father Forti glances at him, his teeth catching the light from a street lamp. “It’s about a figure called the Demon of Milan.”

Chris carefully doesn’t react. “A demon?” he says. His hotel is up ahead, at the end of the block, but Chris has no intention of going to his hotel. “I didn’t realize the Church believed in demons anymore.”

“Some of us still do.” They walk past his hotel. “People were much more superstitious during the Renaissance.”

“Of course.” Chris agrees, guiding them down a side street.

“You see,” Father Forti starts, seemingly unaware that Chris is leading them deep into the darkest part of Milan, “the Sforza family ruled Milan starting in 1450. Legend states that they were attended by a demon. It didn’t matter if the Sforzas needed a man killed or intelligence on an enemy; the demon would deliver. Of course, there are legends like that about every family dynasty in Europe. For example, legend states that the Demon of Milan served both Caterina Sforza and Cesare Borgia.”

Like hell he served Cesare. He would rather be tortured to death than serve that prissed up peacock.

“Weren’t they at war?” Chris asks instead of wrinkling his nose.

“For a time.” Father Forti smiles. “So you can see…parts of the legend aren’t reliable.”

“But you think parts of it are.” Chris doesn’t phrase it like a question.

“There was a man that attended every Sforza ruler, a man that didn’t seem to age or die. Three separate priests and one Cardinal, all from different time periods, wrote about him. They described his looks and the fact that he never went to church; he would wait outside whenever the rulers prayed or sought council.” Father Forti glances at Chris sidelong. “There are drawings of the man, just sketches. One of the priests was a gifted artist.”

Panic is thrumming through Chris’ veins. A sketch? What sketch? What priest?

“Will you teach this in your class?’ Chris forces his voice to be level as they turn down another street. It’s clear Father Forti wasn’t lying when he said he was visiting Milan. Otherwise he would have noticed that Chris has taking them deep into the city where there are more dark alleys and hidey holes than people.

“The Church disapproves of demons.” Father Forti admits. He’s holding his cross again, like he’s afraid. “If a priest suspects a person to be possessed, tests must be done. Any exorcisms have to be cleared with the Archbishop. It’s unfortunate because not everyone has that kind of time.”

“So why spend so much time studying this legend?” Chris asks as the road opens up to a piazza dominated by a bronze statue at the center.

Father Forti stops walking. “Where are we?” He asks.

Chris makes a show of pausing and looking around. “Oh,” he says, keeping one eye on Father Forti’s cross. “I’m sorry. I was so distracted by your story that I got us lost.”

He turns to face Father Forti, putting his hands on his pockets and a smile on his face.

“It’s not a story,” Father Forti hisses. “You know it’s not.”

“Excuse me?” Chris asks as Father Forti takes off his rosary, clutching the cross in one fist.

“Why come back now?” Father Forti asks, advancing. Chris holds his ground. Everything seems slow and soft, the shifting shadows clouding his vision. He watches Father Forti advance and shifts his weight slowly, anticipating the fight he’s spent hundreds of years avoiding.

“After all this time, after all these years, you come back to Milan.” Father Forti continues. “For what?”

He attacks before Chris can answer, moving forward and thrusting his cross against Chris’ chest.

Chris screams.

It hurts more than he can explain; it burns so much he’s surprised to see it hasn’t ignited with holy fire. It burns through his button up, his undershirt, until it’s against his skin. Chris’ knees buckle. Black spots encroach on his vision. He can’t – he can’t pass out – he’ll die if he does and he doesn’t want to die, not yet – Tan promised him sixty years – he hasn’t even fucking texted Eduardo back –

Chris staggers back and then kicks Father Forti in the stomach as hard as he can, groaning as the movement pulls on his blistered chest.

Father Forti falls down with a grunt, rosary still clutched in his fist. Chris turns and runs across the piazza, towards the statue. At one point he lost Chris Hughes and became demonic and it’s – it’s fucking surreal, to be running across the cobblestones in Milan once again, the burn of a cross blistered on his chest.

Behind he hears the groan of Father Forti pushing himself up. Chris runs faster and slams into the statue, unable to make his body cooperate enough to stop. His hands scrabble over statue, groping for grooves in the bronze as he peers up at the figure. It’s a man posed like a conquering emperor, mounted on a horse, one hand on the reins and the other on his thigh.

A sword is hooked into his belt.

Chris doesn’t have any time to shut his eyes in relief so instead he hoists himself up onto the plinth and runs his hands over the sword, from the length of it in the scabbard to the exposed hilt.

“Come on,” he mutters, concentrating fiercely. He doesn’t want to die, he can’t die yet – he can hear Father Forti’s footsteps –

The statue warps a little. Chris puts both hands around the hilt of the sword and tugs and to his enormous, _enormous_ relief, the sword slides free, just as a hand grabs his ankle and pulls him down.

Chris falls, still clutching the sword. He slides down the plinth to the cobblestones and rolls, bringing the sword up at an angle to stab Father Forti through the stomach and up to the heart.

In movies, people scream when they’re stabbed. In real life, they don’t.

Father Forti stares down at Chris as he bleeds out. Gravity is pushing him down onto the sword, down towards Chris. His hand, still clutching the cross, is inches from Chris’ chest. Chris struggles to hold the sword up and support Father Forti’s weight, his muscles shaking with the effort. Father Forti groans at little, a sickly wet sound, and sags. The chain of the rosary brushes Chris’ arm as Father Forti’s body slides further down the sword and Chris flinches, then rolls out from under Father Forti. The body hits the cobblestones next to Chris, the bloody sword pinning it in place.

Chris, panting, stares up at the sky.

He can’t believe he’s still alive.

He knows he needs to get up, needs to get rid of the evidence: put the sword back, wipe away his finger prints, burn his shirts, and break in somewhere to get medical supplies and a new shirt. But he can’t move. He hasn’t been this close to death in a long time.

Three or four years ago he would have been content to die this way, the cross burning life out of him so cleanly that there would have been no spirit left behind to live in the Outpost. It’s a soldier’s death, a way to put him at rest. But now –

“I don’t want to die.” Chris rasps, throat raw from screaming.

There’s a streak of light in the sky, brilliant against the dull orange of light pollution. Chris watches it as he struggles to stand, body reluctant to cooperate after everything it’s been through tonight. He thinks about going to the hospital in an absent sort of way but rejects the idea immediately. He can’t go to the hospital. How is he supposed to explain the burn in the shape of a cross? No, no hospitals. His body will heal, though it will heal human slow. He’s not going to die.

Chris thinks this over and over in the dark piazza: he’s not going to die.

He leans against the statue and looks up to see the streak of light growing brighter, coming closer. Chris realizes what it is as it flies towards him, illuminating the piazza. He groans and shuts his eyes, wanting to duck down and hide but unable to move as the bright light comes closer, closer, and lands next to him.

This close he can feel the heat from it, can smell smoke. He opens his eyes and looks into the familiar face of Christy Lee.

“Don’t be afraid.” Christy says, folding her wings of fire against her back. “I’m not here for you.”

He goggles at her, unable to form any words, all thoughts scattering in her presence. She watches him carefully, light spilling from her pale skin, her dark hair somehow glowing against the night. The urge to fall to his knees fights with the urge to run away.

“I’m not here for you.” Christy repeats, stretching out a hand to him. Chris can’t make himself flinch away from her; typical for a demon in the presence of an angel. Christy is warm to the touch but her hand against his skin doesn’t hurt, and her presence doesn’t make him writhe or scream. Maybe he is dead; maybe Hell was burned out of him.

“This is a mess.” Christy says. “It’s always Halloween with you, isn’t it? I should have known.”

“Hey.” Chris says, finally finding his voice. “This isn’t my fault.”

Christy laughs; it sounds like two swords meeting. “Oh, I know.” She says, watching as Chris strips off his button up and undershirt. She kicks at Father Forti’s body under it rolls over, and pulls the sword out, passing it to Chris. Chris climbs the statue again, clumsy with the effort, and returns the sword to it’s sheathe before wiping down the handle. The statue warps as the sword becomes part of it again.

Chris is so tired.

He jumps down from the statue and leans against the plinth, eyes fluttering closed, and then squawks when Christy kicks him.

“Stay awake.” She says, taking his bundled shirts from him. They burst into flames and she throws them onto the ground, next to Father Forti’s body.

“What are you doing here?” Chris asks, folding his arms over his chest. Christy looks at him and he shivers, gooseflesh erupting over his skin.

Christy points one glowing finger at Father Forti’s body. “I’m here for him.”

Chris considers that. “Why aren’t you hurting me?”

“Do you want me too?” Christy aims a smirk at him, her eyes dark, and Chris glares at her. “We’re at a truce.” Christy says after a moment, still smirking.

“Right.” Chris says. “But you’re holy, like – like a church, but it’s not painful to be around you.”

“Some things are older than holiness.” Christy says, purposefully vague. Chris rolls his eyes and she laughs. “Listen, he was out of line. You know we exist separately from the Church but sometimes we overlap – this was _not_ one of those times.”

“Glad to hear it.” Chris snaps. He glances around, at the dark houses that line the empty piazza. He needs to get the fuck out of here. If someone wakes up and gets a glass of water and happens to look out of the window and sees him, he’s fucked.

Christy shuffles her wings and Chris looks at them. Each fiery feather has an eye on it. He quickly looks away, not wanting to see if the eyes are like the eyes on peacock’s feathers or like the eyes on humans.

“I didn’t realize you were so…” he trails off, waving a hand. “Important.”

“Facebook was a vacation.” Christy smiles, showing teeth. He knows angels, knows their castes and their purposes, from archangel to trumpeter, but he’s never seen anything like this.

“Older than holiness.” Chris repeats quietly. “Death is the only thing older than holiness.”

Christy’s smile grows. “You’ve always been smart.”

Something is coalescing in the air next to Father Forti’s body. Chris can’t see it but he can sense it, can sense the air being displaced.

Christy extends a hand to whatever it is, her fingers curling around the air. She points at Chris with the other hand. “I better not see you again for a long time.”

Chris swallows. His burn hurts so much he thinks he’s going to throw up. “Noted.”

Christy nods at him and then she’s gone, light dimming until the piazza is dark again, and Chris is left alone with a corpse.


	5. Chapter 5

_November_

 

38 hours later, Chris takes a cab from his apartment in the Upper Westside to Eduardo’s neighborhood in the Financial District.

He’s losing his grip; he knows that because it’s stupid to go see Eduardo. He knows it’s a bad idea but he can’t keep himself away. He hates that he’s doing something as human as giving into an irrational desire borne from an irrational emotion.

 _You’ve always been too human_.

He keeps seeing Father Forti above him, pinned on Chris’ sword, inches away from trying to burn Chris out of existence. He keeps remembering the moments he thought he was going to die. The moment he realized he didn’t want to die, not yet, not when he hasn’t even texted Eduardo back, not when Tan had promised him sixty years.

Now he’s alive but he still hasn’t texted Eduardo back because he doesn’t know what to say; he’s still trying to figure out what to say when the cab driver pulls up a block away from Eduardo’s apartment building.

The fare is $14.48. The universe is laughing at him.

Chris gives the cabbie a $20, because he does not fucking believe in symbolism, and gets out of the car.

 

Eduardo opens the door with damp hands and wide eyes.

“Hi.” Chris says after a minute, hands in his pockets. He tries not to feel pathetic. “Um – sorry, I should have texted…” he trails off, feeling like an idiot.

Eduardo is staring at him. He’s the most beautiful thing Chris has ever seen, from his stupid fluffy hair to his perfect mouth that is slowly curving into a smile.

Chris exhales.

“Hi.” Eduardo says. He opens the door wider.

“You have to – you have to formally invite me in.” Chris feels hysterical.

“Oh.” Eduardo laughs a little. “Please come in, you’re welcome.”

Chris obeys and Eduardo shuts the door behind him before pulling Chris into a hug.

Chris shuts his eyes. Eduardo is taller than he is, and stronger, and Chris thinks he could stay here forever, Eduardo’s arms wrapped around him and Eduardo’s face pressed against Chris’ neck. Chris realizes that Eduardo is shuddering slightly and he runs a hand down the line of Eduardo’s spine to rest on the small of his back, thumb rubbing circles against Eduardo’s shirt.

It’s too much. He pulls away, Eduardo letting him go reluctantly. They stand awkwardly in the foyer for a minute until Eduardo gestures at the hallway behind him.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Yes.” Chris says almost before Eduardo has finished speaking. “Yes, I’d love too.”

Eduardo’s smile lights up his face.

Chris unbuttons his peacoat and hangs it up, grimacing as the motion pulls on his burn, and then turns to follow Eduardo down the hall and into the kitchen and family room.

He leans against the back of the couch and watches Eduardo mince garlic. The TV is on, a low hum in the background, but all Chris can focus on is Eduardo.

“How have you been?” Eduardo asks. “Mark says you quit your job and decided to go find yourself in Europe.”

“I don’t know about ‘finding myself.’” Chris says ruefully, mouth quirking. “But yes, I’ve been traveling since July. It’s been good.” He shrugs.

“I’m so glad!” Eduardo smiles at him.

Something fractures inside of him, like all of his ribs are splintering at once, like something is squeezing his heart. It _hurts_ , a desperate, hollow pain that Chris thought would be what losing his soul felt like. He can’t breathe, can’t speak, just drinks in the sight of Eduardo’s face, of his smile.

 _Fuck_.

He had never known – he didn’t realize – no one had ever told him love was going to feel like this, like something was tearing through him. He had always thought the pain in his chest he got whenever he thought about Eduardo was the worst of it, but this – this is –

“Did you go to Italy?” Eduardo asks, scraping the garlic into a casserole dish, not noticing anything is wrong. Chris is still breathing, still moving, still in one piece.

How the _fuck_ do people do this?

“Yeah.” Chris swallows. “To Sondrio and…Milan.”

“Was it good?”

“It was alright.” Chris doesn’t think about Father Forti. “Milan is still the most beautiful city in Europe.”

Eduardo smiles. “Not that you’re biased.”

“Of course not.” Chris agrees.

 

Eduardo updates him on Divya’s and Preeta’s wedding as he prepares dinner. It sort of feels like being in the hotel room with him all over again, listening to him talk about the wedding and focusing on not touching him.

The music of NBC Nightly news sounds and Eduardo looks up. “Turn that up?” He asks, gesturing at a remote.

Chris obeys. He finds himself staring at Brian Williams’ face as the man talks about a Bosian Serb war criminal attending his trial for the first time. Behind him Eduardo is puttering around the kitchen, looking for a vegetable peeler.

“Confusion and outrage continue as the Milanese police search for the killer of Father Matteo Forti, who was found dead early this Monday. Father Forti, a visitor from the seminary in Varese, was found stabbed to death. Prior to his death, he told many of his colleagues that he had found ‘the Demon of Milan,’ a legendary demon from Milan’s history, and that he planned to exorcise it. Exorcisms are illegal without the express permission of the Archbishop, the consent of the family, and many exhaustive tests proving an exorcism is necessary. According to reports, no exorcism had been cleared with the Archbishop, Cardinal Dionigi Tettamanzi. Critics of the Catholic Church are calling for an investigation into Father Forti and the Archdiocese; The Church has yet to comment.” Brian Williams pauses. “We’ll return after this short message.”

Chris feels like he’s been doused in ice water. He can’t breathe – he’s drowning – he can’t believe Father Forti’s murder is international news –

Tan had called him as he was boarding the plane in Milan.

 _“We’re taking care of it.”_ Was all she had said before hanging up. Chris hadn’t known what to think, what to do – he can’t remember a time Tan had ever needed to clean up his messes, but here they were.

He trusts her, he does, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s living on borrowed time, that the Milanese police are going to hunt him down and drag him, kicking and screaming, back to Italy to stand trial. And now Father Forti is international news. Chris needs to leave. He can’t be around Eduardo, not when he’s a time bomb.

“– Chris?” Eduardo is saying, looking at Chris in concern.

“Sorry.” Chris forces a smile. “What were you saying?”

“Are you okay? You look ill –” Eduardo frowns. “Are you – are you bleeding?”

“What?” Chris looks down to see that blood has soaked through the nonstick pad he put on and his blue shirt. He should have changed the dressing before coming over here. He should have done a lot of things differently. “Oh – it’s nothing.”

Eduardo abandons hunting for his vegetable peeler to come and stand in front of Chris. “It doesn’t look like nothing. What happened?”

“I got burned.” Chris says reluctantly. “It’s fine, seriously –”

“It’s not.” Eduardo says, meeting Chris’ eyes. Memories of the Wastes slam through Chris. “Come on, I have a pretty extensive first aid kit. I’ll patch you up.”

He takes Chris’ wrist and leads him through the apartment to the bathroom, unearthing a large first aid kit from the vanity cabinet.

Chris pulls his shirt off, wincing as the motion tugs on his burn. Eduardo is watching him, eyes dark.

Chris suddenly realizes this is the first time he’s been shirtless in front of Eduardo since 2004 and resists the urge to put the shirt back on.

Eduardo’s touch is gentle, but it still makes Chris’ breath catch. Eduardo pauses with his fingertips on Chris’ skin. Chris is burning alive.

“Alright?” Eduardo asks, thumb sweeping back and forth gently. Chris nods.

Eduardo peels away the nonstick pad and throws it into the trash – and gasps.

“What is this?” Eduardo demands. _“What is this?”_

Chris shuts his eyes for a minute. The burn is livid, the cross branded into him and the skin all around it thick and blistered, plasma leaking steadily. He’s lucky that it’s not a third degree burn. It would have been if Father Forti had burned him any longer.

Chris thinks of Father Forti pinned on the sword and swallows hard.

“I’m going to be fine.” He tells Eduardo quietly. He can feel the heat from Eduardo’s body from here and he can’t stop his body from reacting, gooseflesh erupting on his skin.

“This is a cross. Did someone – did someone do this to you?” Eduardo’s voice is low and dangerous. Heat crawls up Chris’ spine.

“Yes.” He admits. “But – it’s not going to be a problem anymore.”

Eduardo stares at him for a minute, jaw still clenched. Chris wants to run his hands along Eduardo’s shoulders and get him to relax. He wants to put his shirt back on and pretend that it didn’t happen, wants to sit down with Eduardo and eat dinner and ignore the rest of the world.

“Was it the priest in Milan?” Eduardo asks, and he doesn’t – he doesn’t look angry, he looks sad. He reaches out and takes one of Chris’ hands in his.

“Yes.” Chris whispers it. “He came after me with his rosary, and I –” He falters. “He knew my name, Eduardo. He knew who I was, what I looked like. I couldn’t get away from him.”

“It was self defense.” Eduardo says quietly. “Do you understand that? It was self defense.”

And it was. Chris knows this, has told himself this a thousand times in the past 36 or so hours but it sounds real, coming from Eduardo.

Eduardo’s thumb moves across Chris’ knuckles comfortingly. “I’m going to take care of you.” He says this very, very softly. “You took care of me, once, so let me –”

“That was different.” Chris looks down. “You don’t owe me anything. I just –”

“Please let me do this.” Eduardo’s voice cracks.

“Okay.” Chris cannot deny him anything. He wonders if Eduardo knows that; he could ask for a star and Chris would do everything in his power to bring him one.

Eduardo squeezes his hand once more before dropping it to flip through the manual in his first aid kit. “We have to wash the wound with cold water.”

“Okay.” Chris sighs. He unbuttons his pants and tugs them off. Eduardo watches until he sees Chris thumbing the waistband of his boxer briefs; he turns around, like he hasn’t seen Chris naked before, like it wasn’t an almost monthly occurrence at Harvard. But now things are different between them and it’s Chris’ fucking fault.

He goes to the shower, spinning the dial as he steps into it.

“Cold water.” Eduardo says again. Then: “Does it hurt?”

“A little.” It hurts a fuckton. It hurts so goddamn much – but being here hurts more. Being here helps it hurt less. Chris can’t make up his mind. He’s driving himself up the fucking wall.

“Don’t put the water on it directly.” Eduardo instructs as Chris closes the shower curtain. “Cup your hands and pour water on it until it stops hurting.”

“I don’t think it’s going to stop hurting.” Chris mutters.

“Until it hurts less, then.” Eduardo sounds angry again, and Chris peers at him through the shower curtain. He’s just a dark shape through the curtain, body backlit by the vanity lights. It’s the feeling he’s had of Eduardo through out Europe, realized – a distant, looming presence, a calling light.

“Now you wash it – you can use the soap to your left. Some of…the skin might come off.”

Chris picks up Eduardo’s bar of soap. Eduardo is a fucking millionaire but his soap is the kind you can buy at a grocery store or at Rite Aid, Dove or Dial or something. The logo is half worn away, only the ‘D’ remaining. Chris lathers and washes his hands first, then gently washes his chest and rinses. It hurts again – everything hurts – but the pain is easing, the cool water doing the trick.

Chris finishes and shuts off the shower. For a minute all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the drip of the water. After a minute he hears Eduardo’s breathing too; quieter, slower.

He pulls the curtain back, the rings bumping up against each other, and looks around for a towel. Eduardo is still standing with his back to Chris, rummaging through the first aid kit.

“The towel farthest from you is clean.” Eduardo’s voice is hoarse.

Chris grabs the towel and dries off, avoiding his chest. Instead he rubs at his hair, at his arms and legs, at his feet – he hates when people don’t dry their feet – and knots the towel around his waist.

“All clear.” He says dryly.

Eduardo washes his hands slowly, methodically. Chris stands and watches. Eduardo dries his hands and then finally turns around, clutching some gauze. He frowns when he sees that Chris’ chest is still wet, water running down it in rivulets, and steps forward. Chris forces himself not to flinch away as Eduardo begins to pat him dry. They don’t look at each other, or rather, Chris looks away and Eduardo stares at his burn.

“Okay.” Eduardo steps away and throws the gauze in the trashcan. “Next we put on Neosporin.” He hands the tube to Chris and Chris uncaps it, spurts it on his chest and rubs it in. Eduardo is fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot, like he can’t stand to be near Chris, like he’s never seen Chris shirtless before.

Chris wants to grab his arms and shake him. He wants to kiss him. He wants to know how people live like this, always wanting.

He grits his teeth.

“All done.” He hands the tub back to Eduardo, their hands brushing, Chris’ fingers sticky from the ointment.

“Now we bandage it.” Eduardo says, picking up a nonstick pad and stepping closer to Chris. “Come sit on the counter?”

Chris obeys. Eduardo steps between his legs, his breath gusting over the skin of Chris’ face as he presses a nonstick pad to Chris’ chest. “Hold that?”

Chris obeys. “I’m sorry.” He says suddenly, unable to stop himself.

Eduardo pauses in the midst of tearing off strips of medical tape. “For what?” He asks, looking at Chris.

“For coming here.” Chris realizes how that sounds and winces. “I’m not – Tan is taking care of it. The police won’t come bang down your door but I…I didn’t want you to know.”

“Chris, after all we’ve been through I don’t mind if you lead the police to my door.” Eduardo says, stepping forward and taping the nonstick pad to Chris’ chest. His hand keeps brushing Chris’. Each touch sends electricity through him.

“But I would.” Chris says, grabbing one of Eduardo’s hands. He meets Eduardo’s eyes. “I would mind.”

Eduardo stares at him.

“You know that, right?” Chris feels hysterical again, everything in him rising up. “I won’t – I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not scared, Chris.” Eduardo says quietly. He tugs his hand out of Chris’ grip to finish taping the pad to Chris’ chest before taking one of Chris’ hands in both of his. “I’m not scared.” He swallows. “I always want you to come to me when you’re – when you’re hurt, or you’re afraid. I want to be there for you.”

Chris looks at him, utterly helpless in the face of this naked honesty. Eduardo is still standing between his legs, his hips bracketed by Chris’ knees, and Chris reaches out and curves his free hand around one of Eduardo’s hips.

“Chris.” Eduardo’s voice is shaking. Chris is hot all over, like Eduardo’s touch has set him ablaze.  
“Are you.” Chris swallows. “Do you.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, what he wants, all he knows that he is so tired of waiting. He is so tired of wanting. “I missed you in Europe, I missed you every day. You were all I thought about – you’re all I think about.” He breaks off, flushing hot and clenching his jaw, but the words keep coming. “You’re all I want, do you know that? You’re all –”

Eduardo leans forward, dropping Chris’ hand to grip Chris’ hips through the towel. Chris wraps his arms around Eduardo’s neck as Eduardo steps closer, thighs hitting the vanity counter.

“Chris.” Eduardo says again, resting his forehead against Chris’, and Chris shudders.

“What have you done to me?” He asks helplessly.

And then –

Pain explodes in his gut, hot enough to cauterize, wild like a bullet. It’s not his pain; it’s a ghost pain, a haunting, an ache.

“Ah.” Chris groans, clutching at his side.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Eduardo steps backward, hands scrabbling over Chris’ stomach and side.

“It’s not – something’s wrong.” Chris manages, hopping down from the vanity. “It’s not my pain. It’s someone else’s.”

“Oh.” Eduardo’s brow furrows. “Is this what it was like on – on that night?”

 _Is this what it was like on the night I tried to kill myself?_ Chris mentally translates.

“Yes.” He mutters, stooping to get his clothes and then abandoning his towel to dress. “I have to…Amy’s in trouble.”

He knows as soon as he says it that it’s true. This is Amy’s pain, Amy’s call for help. Nobody else’s call would be so powerful, and he’s with the only other person that would call.

He pulls on his underwear and steps into his pants before turning to look at Eduardo. “I’m sorry, she needs me. I have to –” He cuts himself off. “Eduardo.”

Eduardo walks out of the room and Chris follows him, buttoning his jeans at the same time.

“Here.” Eduardo throws a balled t-shirt at him. Chris catches it and tugs it on. Eduardo looks unhappy, mouth pulled into a tight line.

“I’m going to come back.” Chris says after a minute. “I promise, I’m not leaving because I want to.”

“Okay.” Eduardo whispers, looking down at his hands. Chris crosses the room to stand in front of him, unsure what to do. He wants to kiss Eduardo but the moment’s been ruined, so instead he pulls Eduardo into a hug. Eduardo clings to him, his nose tucked against Chris’s jaw. Chris can feel him swallowing convulsively.

“I’m coming back.” He promises. “Just – just know that.”

“Okay.” Eduardo sounds as helpless as Chris feels.

“I’m sorry.” Chris says again, and disappears.


	6. Chapter 6

He meant to go to Amy but he ends up in Hell, which tells him everything he needs to know. Hell is even more wild and sprawling after the endless cities of Europe, mountains rising sharply out of the earth. Chris moves quickly through the cacti towards Tan’s stone House, pushing open the doors and striding inside. This is like a horrible do over of the day Eduardo tried to kill himself; Chris feeling the pain, Chris realizing Eduardo was in the Wastes, Chris going to Hell.

Amy is in the Wastes.

He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, just runs through the house’s twisting corridors, running up and down stairs and slamming open every door he passes through. There’s a doorway on the northern side of the house that leads to the Wastes but every time Chris needs it he can’t find it. Today is no exception. He spends precious minutes searching for it. By the time he finds the door, Tan is waiting for him.

He knew she would be, knew deep down in the place that was anticipating Amy getting hurt. His dark heart knows more than he wants to see or realize, and just as it had whispered _go to him_ when it was Eduardo, it tells him to go to the Wastes to find Amy.

He doesn’t know why it’s important; he just knows that it is.

“Get out of my way.” Chris says to Tan, stopping in front of her.

Tan looks at him, her lip curling. “Why?” she asks.

“Please.” Chris hates when she’s cruel.

Tan begins to change from her neutral form into something else, skin rippling until it cracks, body elongating oddly. He watches it happen, staring her in the eye the entire time, willing her to move.

He doesn’t think about how he’s challenging her in her own House.

Tan finishes changing and Chris has to take a breath. He’s never seen her like this, in what must be her original form – naked and pale white, with black eyes and overly large wings, everything oddly stretched and elongated in a mockery of a human body. The feathers on her wings have eyes just like Christy’s, but these eyes blink open and stare at him.

Chris stares back. This isn’t a mockery of a human body, he realizes. It’s a mockery of an angel’s body.

 _Has an angel ever sold their soul?_ Amy had asked back in the spring, and Chris had answered _just one_ and told her to pick another topic.

He supposes he’s always known what Tan is. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t know _what_ to think about it.

“Get out of my way.” He says again, and Tan cocks her head at him.

“Why?” She asks. “The Wastes are supposed to be walked alone.”

“I have to be there.” Chris insists, surprising himself. “You let me walk it with Eduardo.”

“Eduardo was different.” Tan says, one wing twitching. “No one has ever walked the Wastes three times, Cristoforo.”

“Then I’ll be the first.” He says, stepping closer. The door behind Tan shudders, wind shrieking behind it. “Get out of my way.”

“If you walk the Wastes this time you will walk it as if it is your own test.” Tan tells him. “Does that change your mind?”

Chris swallows down panic. “No.”

Tan inclines her oddly elongated head. “Then so be it.”

Suddenly Chris is wearing the clothes he wore for his first Wastes, five and a half centuries ago – linen breeches, wool stockings, leather boots and a linen shirt. He had been so stupid, so sure she was going to kill him; he had stripped down to his underclothes and kept vigil in his rooms, waiting for Tan to come to him.

And she had.

Tan moves aside, and Chris opens the door.

 

 

The house disappears as soon as he steps into the snow of the Wastes. It happened that way last time too, with Eduardo, but Chris had barely noticed. He barely notices now, taking off at a run. He can see Amy’s body up ahead, crumpled up in the snow, her golden hair spread out like a halo.

There’s blood on the snow. He was expecting that. When he drops to his knees and rolls her over, he sees the gunshot wound, blood staining the black of her police officer’s uniform.

“Amy.” Chris whispers. He’s shivering, his linen clothes not doing anything to protect him from the cold. “Amy, get up.”

Amy opens her eyes.

She manages to push herself up, gasping a little at the blood staining her side. Chris knows from experience that bodily wounds don’t transfer to Hell, knows Amy can’t feel the pain from the wound, but she still clutches at it in horror.

“Oh my god.” Amy says, standing with difficulty and looking around. Chris looks around too, wanting to know what it is this time. A clearing from Sondrio? The Dolomites?

It’s the Wastes that he dreamed of in Europe: snow that stretches as far as the eye can see him all around him, stretching up to meet a similarly white and empty sky. Chris, trying not to panic, forces himself to keep breathing deep and even. Now that he’s here he doesn’t want to be. He knows what it’s going to be like, knows the cold will bite him and the monotony will tear him apart. And while he had known what Eduardo needed to figure out –something to do with Facebook, with Mark, with his father, with valuing himself – he has no idea what Amy has to figure out. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing here.

He tries to concentrate on it, but now that the overwhelming need to be in the Wastes with Amy has been satisfied he’s alone and drifting. He’s as lost as she is.

“Where are we?” Amy asks, still looking around.

“The Wastes.” Chris answers, moving to stand next to her. She’s peering at something coming walking in their direction, eyes narrowed. “This is –”

“Maggie.” Amy whispers, cutting him off. “Maggie!”

Chris can see it too now, a slow, lumbering form that is making its way towards them, long hair streaming behind it.

“MAGGIE!” Amy screams, launching herself forward. Chris grabs her hand and pulls her back.

“Stop.” He says. “It’s not her, you have to –”

Amy turns around and punches him in the face.

Chris staggers backwards, blood streaming from his throbbing nose and an eyebrow. Ordinarily he can take a punch better than that but he wasn’t exactly expecting for Amy to _deck him_.

“God fucking damnit,” he hisses as Amy begins to run towards Maggie. He follows, his longer legs letting him overtake her in seconds.

Amy is tall for a woman and thin, sharp like a switchblade. When Chris picks her up unceremoniously she twists in his grip, trying to fight him. Chris shakes her a little.

“ _Listen to me.”_ He snarls, walking away from the thing that looks like Maggie. “It’s not her. _It’s not her._ ”

“Let me go!”

Chris shakes her again. “We’re in Hell.” He tells her, giving up on walking in order to restrain Amy. “Did Maggie sell her soul?”

Amy quiets a little, just for a second, and Chris knows she’s listening to him. “No.”

“Then why would she be here? She isn’t here, Amy. She’s in Heaven – she’s where people with souls go.” Amy sags in Chris’s arms and he maneuvers them until he’s holding her gently, almost like a hug. “She’s not here. That isn’t her. It’s not real.”

“What is it?” Amy asks, sounding more defeated than he’s ever heard her. Chris lets her go.

“It’s a shade.” He answers, and moves until he’s in front of her. Her blue eyes meet his. “We’re in Hell, in a place called the Wastes. This is the test.”

“What test?”

“I can’t –”

Amy’s mouth twists. “You can’t tell me. Okay. So how do we get out of here?”

Chris, dabbing at the blood from his nose and eyebrow with one sleeve, grimaces. “We have to keep walking…I can’t be more specific.”

“This is the thing you couldn’t tell me about earlier, isn’t it?” Amy asks, following Chris as he starts walking forward. “When I asked you how you became a demon and you were all ‘ohh I’m so vague, look at me’ – this is what you were talking about.”

“Everyone without a soul goes here when they die.” Chris manages to say as he looks over his shoulder at the thing pretending to be Maggie. “Not everyone comes out. Some people just wander for all of eternity.”

“I’m not wandering.” Amy says immediately. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Then we have to walk.” Chris says, grabbing her hand to tug her along. “In any direction you want, as long as we get away from that shade. If it gets near us it’ll kill us.”

“That’s what you did when you died?” Amy asks. “You walked?”

Chris can barely remember anymore, it was so long ago. He remembers wandering, feet numb and blue, too cold for his teeth to chatter. Remembers thinking _I will not die_ over and over again.

“I never died, remember?” He answers. “I took five arrows to chest; they wanted to make sure I would not rise out of Caravaggio. But I was too stubborn to die, and Tan came to me.”

They’re jogging now, still hand in hand, moving through the snowdrifts with difficulty. It’s snowing enough that Chris’s sense of direction is totally shot. His voice seems softer than normal. He read that snow does that, something about the trapped air between snowflakes absorbing vibrations.

“I walked the Wastes in 1450, after Sforza became Duke. I wasn’t ready to die then.” He pauses, exhaling deeply. “I’m not ready to die now.”

“Me either.” Amy says seriously. “Does that matter? Am I already dead?”

Chris shrugs. “Depends on how this ends. If it ends.”

“Why are you here?”

Chris distantly appreciates that even Hell can’t stop Amy from asking questions. The wind is picking up and he bows his head. They’re walking directly into it, of course. He suspects even if they changed directions they’d still be walking into it. The Wastes is like that.

“I don’t know. I just knew I had to be here. I didn’t…” he swallows. “I didn’t want you to have to do this alone.”

Amy throws herself at him, wrapping her skinny arms around him in a hug. “Thank you.” She mutters against his chest. “I’m sorry I punched you.” Then: “Nice new cologne.”

“It’s not mine.” Chris flushes. “It’s Eduardo’s. I was with him when you got shot.”

“You left just to help me out?” Amy squeezes him tighter. “You gotta stop walking out on him.”

“Just say thank you.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Amy pulls away and taps the bandage covering his burn, visible through the gaping neckline of his shirt. He’s sort of surprised it showed up here.

“Remember the priest I met?” Chris asks as they start walking again, hand in hand. “Turns out he wasn’t hitting on me.”

“Rough.” Amy says, breathing hissing out of her as the wind picks up even more.

 

He doesn’t know how long they walk, head bows against the wind. He doesn’t let go of Amy’s hand, afraid he’ll lose her in the blizzard, but he can’t feel her hand in his anymore. It’s just like his nightmare, and it’s making him panic.

He knows he’s here to figure something out; it’s a snowy crucible. He shouldn’t be worried since he’s done this before and emerged victorious, but this time he has too much to lose.

He thinks about how he promised Eduardo he would come back. He thinks about what Amy said: _you gotta stop walking out on him_.

He does that; he runs away from his problems. He ran from Eduardo after they left Hell and he ran from Eduardo after they danced. He fucking ran to Europe to try and leave all of his problems behind.

No – that’s not right. He treated Europe like it was the Wastes, like it was an immense landscape he had to walk through to figure things out.

All he figured out was that there was nothing to come back to there, not even a plot in a graveyard.

He’s so tired of waiting, of _wanting_. Tired of wanting Eduardo so much he had to go to resort to avoiding Eduardo in hopes it would fade away. But it hadn’t and it wasn’t going too; he knows that now. He’s been in love with Eduardo since 2003. It was time to fucking do something about it.

“If we ever get out of here, I’m going to tell him.” It’s hard to speak. His face feels numb. He looks down and sees his hand is blue in Amy’s grip. “I’m going to tell him how I feel. I’m going to stop running.”

Amy looks at him, gold hair shining in the dim. “Not if, Chris. _When._ Don’t do that to yourself.”

“Amy, look around.” He spreads his arms, tugging on her hand to do so. “We’re lost. I don’t know what else to do.”

“We’re just supposed to walk until – what?”

“Until we find Tan’s House.” Chris is too tired to care about the rules of the test. Fuck the rules. Fuck the test. “It won’t appear until we’re ready.”

“Fuck that.” Amy says, echoing his own thoughts. “I’m not waiting around for a magic house. I’m done walking aimlessly.” She tosses her golden head, blue eyes bright against her pale face. “I’ll find my own way.”

“I’m coming with you.” Chris says immediately and Amy smiles as she turns to the left, eyes searching for something Chris can’t see.

“I’d never dream of leaving you behind.” She promises. “Now – we’re going to run.”

They run, still hand in hand, Amy leading this time. Chris has no way to track time or distance but he notices that the wind has indeed shifted until it’s blowing directly at them.

Amy is fearless. She simply bows her head and keeps going, hand wrapped tightly around Chris’s.

It takes him a while to notice that the snow has stopped falling. Chris drops Amy’s hand to fall back, risking a glance over his shoulder. He sees the line of their footsteps, a tiny march of progress, stretching back as far as he can see. He even see the smudge of the horizon that demarcates snow and sky, the sky growing darker with each minute. He can even see the shade that is still following them, a splash of color against the pale backdrop.

He looks forward again and realizes that the ground is sloping up. With each step Amy takes the ice melts; with each step she takes the fog fades away. Mountains appear out of the gloom before them, rising sharply as if to pierce the sky. The air is different here, crackling with power, and color is flooding back into the world.

Chris feels alive, the cold sinking deep into his lungs, Amy’s mane of wild gold hair in front of him. He feels like a conquering emperor; he feels like there’s an army 10,000 strong at their backs. He’s never been here before, in all his years at Hell and he thinks again and again of every moment when Amy caught him off guard – but he had never expected this. This, the snow melting, colors wheeling in the dark sky overhead, Amy glancing back at him with laughing black eyes and a fierce smile, all of the humanity utterly taken from her.

 _I’ll find my own way_ she had said, and Chris should have known better than to doubt her.

Amy takes a faint path that leads up the mountain and Chris follows. The moon and stars are out, bright enough to light the way, brighter than they have any right to be. Chris can see far in every direction but there is no great stillness that usually follows a blizzard. Instead he feels his blood rising with the elevation; he feels a great momentum building, a tide pulling him along. He wants to keeping living; he wants sixty more years. Maybe life will interfere with the devil’s plans and he’ll only get five. He’s already gotten 581, after all, but he’s always been greedy. He remembers refusing to die even with five arrows in his chest, remembers the hunger in him then. It’s present again, has been slowly growing since Father Forti and Milan and it’s erupting now as they stride through the mountain pass. Chris’ dark heart twinges in satisfaction.

He wonders if this has ever been done before, if anyone else has said _fuck the test_ and shaped the world with their will, stripping the Wastes of snow and ice and power. If anyone else became tired of waiting for Tan’s house and decided to take the pass that bridged snow and desert.

As if she can read his thoughts – and maybe she can – Amy falls back and falls into step with him, eyes still shining and lips curled in a wild smile.

“You can’t just wait for things to happen.” She tells him, gesturing at their surroundings with one small hand. “You have to _make_ them happen.”

“You break more rules than Tan does.” Chris says, laughing, and Amy’s wild expression quiets some.

“I’ll tear down Heaven if I have too.” She promises, looking up at the stars spinning above them. “I’ll raise all of Hell.”

“I know.” Chris says, utterly believing her. “I know you will.”

 

Tan is waiting for them at the base of the mountains, wearing her neutral form and a smile. She comes forward to embrace Amy, proud like a parent, and Chris hangs back and watches.

Amy is demonic now, pale and blacked eyed and horrific. Chris thinks she must have known it was going to happen, the way he knew as soon as he met her. He thinks back to the graveyard; he thinks back to Amy saying _but I’m not sorry_ and smiles.

Amy and Tan separate and begin to walk towards the House, Amy holding herself as regally as any queen. Chris follows at a distance. He’s transfixed by the two of them, by the way their heads bend together like two swans, like mirror images, photo and photo negative.

Amy and Tan turn to go to the Wall of Souls as soon as they enter the House. Chris slips away to his set of rooms, changes, and leaves again.

He doesn’t think he’ll come back here for a while, which means he owes Michael a visit.

 

It’s a ritual by now. He picks his way through the cacti to the Outpost. He walks through the rock tunnels and hallways, counting the steps and the turns. He finds Michael in his cell, staring out of his window, oblivious to Chris’s presence. Nothing has changed. Eternity is the worst kind of punishment.

Tan finds him standing outside of Michael’s room, debating whether or not to go in.

“Shall we?” she asks before stepping through the doorway.

Michael looks up from his window and grunts when he sees who it is. Of course he recognizes Tan. Chris doesn’t bother getting jealous.

“Hello.” Michael says to both of them, his brow furrowing. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a place called The Outpost, in Hell.” Chris answers.

“Hell? But I went to Church.”

“You sold your soul so that your daughter could have a child.”

“Did I?” Michael asks. “Did it work?”

“Yes.” Chris puts his hands in his pockets “She had a boy and named him after you. They just call him Mike.”

Michael digests this. “Did I ever meet him?”

“Yes. You had two years with him – more time than you should have.”

“Is he out there?” Michael asks, gesturing to his window, and this time Tan answers.

“Sometimes.” She replies to Chris’s utter shock. Michael turns to look at her. “You get to watch him grow up, like any grandparent should.”

“Oh.” Michael says, mollified. “Thank you.” He turns to look at Chris. “Who are you?”

“This is Chris.” Tan says, linking an arm through Chris’. “He is the Walker.”

“That’s nice.” Michael says encouragingly.

“He and I have some things to discuss.” Tan says, already towing Chris to the door. “Say goodbye, Michael.”

“Goodbye, Chris.”

“Goodbye.”

 

Tan leads Chris back the way he came, never needing to pause. She clearly has the Outpost memorized.

“The Walker, huh?” Chris asks, hands in his pockets. “Very fancy.”

“That’s what happens when you set a record.” Tan says, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

“Does Amy also get a nice title? Since she completely obliterated the test?”

“Maybe when she does it three times.” Tan shrugs.

They exit the Outpost and begin to walk towards the House.

“She’s dangerous, you know.” Chris warns when they’re halfway there, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “She threatened to tear down heaven, and she meant it.”

Tan glances at him. “I’m not worried.”

“Why?” Chris asks, bristling at the thought of Tan not taking Amy seriously. She wasn’t there – she didn’t see the way Amy summoned mountains out of the earth and fog and snow.

“Someone like her comes along every once in a long while.” Tan says, patting his arm. “They threaten to unseat me. But it’s hard to sustain that passion and iron belief for a lifetime, let alone a few of them.”

“She could do it.”

“Are you worried about me?” Tan asks, pausing outside of her House. “If anything does happen, it’ll happen long after you are laid to rest.”

“Not exactly comforting,” Chris says dryly, and Tan laughs.

“You better get a move on.” She tells him, her eyes dancing, hungry mouth curved in a smile. “I believe you have a date.”

Chris flushes and wishes he could blame it on the desert sun. “Not like a specific one.”

“Mm, I think you’ll find that there is one.” Tan demurs. “You’re going to be late.”

“You’re okay with this, then? Even though it’s breaking the rules?” When Tan goes to open her mouth Chris holds up a hand. “I know it’s your job to break the rules but it’s not mine. Please, Tan.”

Tan raises a hand to cup his cheek, eyes tenderer than he’s ever seen her. “I’m okay with it.” She promises. “Besides – what is more chaotic than a demon who loves?”

He swallows, throat tight suddenly. “Then I guess this is goodbye.”

“I’ll be around.” She promises. “Don’t think you won’t see me again, Cristoforo.”

Chris nods. “Okay.” He manages. “Alright.”

“Get lost.” Tan orders, stepping away from him and putting her hands in her pockets. “And tell him I say hi.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chris wakes up face down on the floor of his apartment. He groans and rolls over. Everything aches, including his face. He grimaces and prods at his nose before standing.

It takes too long to get up and shower. Chris almost cuts himself while shaving. His hands keep shaking. He wants to go to Eduardo right now, wants to knock on his door and say everything he’s wanted to say since 2003, but he doesn’t want to do it with a bloody, half shaven face and bad breath.

He checks his watch as he’s dressing and feels his heart skip a beat. It’s the middle of the night on December 7th. He’s lost an entire month. When he finds his phone charging in his bedroom it tells him that it’s snowing outside.

He thinks about waiting even as he’s locking the door behind him and rushing down the stairs. He thinks about going back to bed and going to see Eduardo in the morning, maybe bringing him breakfast. He thinks about this even as he hails a cab and rattles off Eduardo’s address.

“It’s a bit early for work.” The cab driver says around a yawn, misunderstanding.

Chris crosses his legs and forces a smile. “It’s very important.”

 

He has to pound on Eduardo’s door for a solid three minutes before Eduardo gets up.

“Divya, if you’re drunk and knocking on my door at – Christ, _3:30 in the morning_ \- again, I _will_ tell Preeta.” Eduardo calls out. Chris can hear him moving behind the door.

“I’m not Divya.” Chris calls back. The footsteps stop and he has to take a breath, heart thudding unpleasantly against his ribs.

Eduardo yanks open the door and stares at him. Chris stares back. Eduardo is in black boxer briefs and an undershirt and it’s – a good look at him. Chris swallows thickly.

“Come in.” Eduardo says after a full minute and a half. He steps aside and Chris obeys, suddenly light headed. Eduardo’s apartment is dark and quiet. Eduardo shuts the door behind him and moves to stand in front of Chris.

Chris doesn’t know what to say. Outside it’s cold and dark; a year ago Eduardo tried to kill himself but now he’s standing in front of Chris, hale and whole. Chris wants to run his hands up Eduardo’s sides, wants to feel the span and the breadth of him. He wants to press his mouth to the hollow of Eduardo’s throat; he wants to check for Eduardo’s pulse again and again, just to hear it beating steadily.

“You can back.” Eduardo says. He’s never been good with silence, Chris thinks distantly.

“Yes.” Chris says, choked up. “I told you I would. And –” and what? “It’s December 7th.”

“I know.” Eduardo whispers. He makes an aborted movement, like he wants to step closer but doesn’t know if he should. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Chris looks at him and thinks of Hell, of all the time he’s spent there and all the promises he’s made. Something started there on the mountainside, when Eduardo had laid his fingertips against Chris’ skin and Chris had abruptly come alive again. He feels Eduardo’s touch even now, burning like a brand; his awareness of Eduardo has come violently alive. He feels himself twitch like a nervous horse, body singing with Eduardo’s nearness; he is at once too much and too small to contain this. Eduardo both is coaxing something from him and coming to meet him, has been waiting for him – is waiting even now, golden and gleaming in the dimness. His eyes are calm and dark, settled and seemingly unaffected by the tumult inside of Chris, but his hands are shaking and Chris can see the way his mouth is quirking up at the corner – nervousness and a dare at all once.

Chris is done waiting.

“I love you.” He says, because if he’s doing this he’s going to do it right. “I have since college, I’m sorry – I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, I just.” He shuts his eyes, takes a breath, opens them again. “I love you; I always have and I always will, and you deserve to know that. You deserve everything.”

“I don’t want everything.” Eduardo confesses quietly, his eyes shining. “All I want is you.”

Chris surges forward and kisses him, cupping his face with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing the tops of Eduardo’s cheekbones. Eduardo’s mouth is soft and he’s trembling but he’s real, he’s there. Chris can’t breathe but doesn’t want to – he wants this moment to stretch out forever, Eduardo warm and pliant and smiling against his mouth, the whole world on pause.

“You love me.” Eduardo says against his mouth, still smiling.

“I really, really do.” Chris says helplessly. Eduardo makes a soft, tiny noise, like a whine, and Chris kisses him again. He keeps kissing him, can’t stop, and Eduardo is kissing back now. He wraps his arms around Chris and presses closer, nipping at Chris’s bottom lip and then soothing it with his tongue. Chris slides his hands down Eduardo’s back and rucks up his shirt so he can rest his hands against Eduardo’s skin, body singing. Eduardo makes another small noise, trying to press even closer, and Chris realizes that Eduardo must be as helpless with love as he is.

Eduardo steps backward and starts unbuttoning Chris’s coat, pausing only to bite at Chris’s lower lip. Chris groans into his mouth and Eduardo shudders, then returns to unbuttoning Chris’s coat with renewed vigor. Chris helps, shrugging it off and letting it hit the floor. He goes to pull Eduardo’s undershirt off, wanting Eduardo beautiful and bare before him, then stops.

“Do you – do you want to slow down, or –”

“No.” Eduardo says between kisses. “I want to feel you – I’ve been waiting so long.”

Chris pulls on Eduardo’s shirt and Eduardo stops kissing Chris long enough to pull it over his head and throw it on the ground before kissing Chris again. Eduardo is walking backwards, hands on Chris’s wrists and Chris lets himself be lead forward. He’s counting on Eduardo to steer them because he’s too busy running his hands over Eduardo’s skin, scratching lightly down Eduardo’s back. Eduardo hums into his mouth and fumbles with the buttons on Chris’s shirt.

“A button down?” He asks, happy and incredulous at the same time. “You put on a button down?”

“I wanted to look nice for you.” Chris mutters, sliding his fingertips beneath the waistband of Eduardo’s underwear.

Eduardo growls at that and stops unbuttoning shirt in order to tug Chris close, his kisses turning filthy. “You do.” His voice is low. Heat crawls up Chris’s spine. “You always do.”

Chris finishes unbuttoning his shirt and shrugs it off, draping it over the back of the couch as they pass it. He likes the idea that tomorrow they’ll wake up and see a trail of clothes leading from the doorway to Eduardo’s bed; he hopes the clothes look like they belong.

Then they’re in Eduardo’s room. Eduardo keeps walking even as he shoves at Chris’s undershirt. Chris pulls away to take that off too as Eduardo sits down on the bed and turns on a lamp before holding out his hands for Chris. Chris unzips his slacks and shoves them down before stepping out of them and going to Eduardo. Eduardo looks up at him, beautiful in the soft light from the lamp, his eyes hooded. Chris’s hands land on the waistband of his underwear and he pauses, the enormity of it all catching up to him.

“Okay?” Eduardo asks softly, reaching out to curl two big hands around Chris’s hips. One of his thumbs sweeps back and forth across Chris’s skin and Chris shudders, dick flexing in his boxer briefs.

“Yeah.” Chris swallows. “Yeah.”

Eduardo curls his fingers under the waistband of Chris’s underwear and begins to pull them down slowly, one of his knuckles brushing Chris’s dick, causing Chris to hiss. Chris steps out of them and then he’s bare before Eduardo.

The heat in Eduardo’s eyes makes Chris flush and step closer so he can straddle Eduardo’s lap, Eduardo leaning back on his elbows. Chris is petrified by his want; he wants to do everything so much that he doesn’t know what to do first.

He kisses Eduardo’s face gently, kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, the corner of his mouth, his jaw. Eduardo tilts his head up obligingly as Chris kisses under his jaw and down his neck. Chris feels suffused with tenderness, feels overwhelmed with it. He doesn’t intend to worship, doesn’t want to put Eduardo on a pedestal but he remembers this feeling from going to church; being so full of awe there’s no room for air.

The world slows down around them as Chris bears Eduardo down onto the bed, or maybe it falls away; Chris isn’t sure. All he knows is the gold of Eduardo’s skin, the curve of his fucking beautiful neck, the expanse of his chest. Chris thumbs at a nipple and hears Eduardo hiss but otherwise the room is quiet and the very air in it is gentle.

Eduardo quivers and flexes beneath Chris’s hands when he reaches Eduardo’s underwear. Chris gets off of him so Eduardo can take them off. They reorient themselves on the bed, vertical instead of horizontal, Eduardo reaching for Chris at the same time Chris reaches for him.

“What do you want?” Chris murmurs, running careful fingers down Eduardo’s thighs. He loves Eduardo’s thighs, always has.

Eduardo opens his mouth to speak and then swallows noisily when Chris curls a hand around his dick. His dick flexes in Chris’s grip, already wet at the tip. Chris presses a thumb against the slit and Eduardo groans.

“Just.” He stops as Chris moves his thumb to right under the head. “Just you, I don’t –” Chris thinks Eduardo is blushing. “There’s lube in the nightstand.”

Chris lets go of Eduardo’s dick regretfully to rummage around in the nightstand. He can’t help feeling triumphant when he finds it and a condom.

“Okay.” Chris murmurs against Eduardo’s mouth as he uncaps the lube and squirts some into his palm. “C’mon, leg up.”

Eduardo obeys and Chris kisses him even as he reaches down for Eduardo’s dick, jacking it a few times before reaching behind it.

He can’t stop looking at Eduardo. He keeps remembering that he’s _allowed_ to look, that there’s no need to look away. And Eduardo is beautiful like this, head thrown back and eyes shut, sweat darkening his hairline and his chest hair.

Chris remembers that feeling he had earlier in the Wastes, the swell of the tide and the building of momentum. He’s living in that feeling now, is letting him overtake him and carry him and Eduardo away. Eduardo’s dick is leaking all over his stomach now and he’s shuddering, the muscles in his abdomen jumping every time Chris moves his fingers. Chris watches Eduardo’s eyelashes flutter and smiles; he’s still smiling as Eduardo opens his eyes and tugs on Chris’s arm.

“C’mon,” Eduardo says raggedly, licking his lips. “I’m ready, I’m ready, I want you.”

Chris’s hands are slippery with lube so Eduardo is the one that rolls the condom on and then he’s laying back against the pillows and Chris is hovering over him. Eduardo looks up at him trustingly as Chris pushes in. He makes an impatient noise but Chris refuses to be rushed, wants to savor every single moment.

Eduardo draws him in and in and in, clutching close and tight. They’re chest to chest but Chris wants to be bone to bone, wants to press close enough so they fuse the way their shadows have. Eduardo runs his hands down Chris’s back, his touch more reverent than Chris truly deserves and Chris rolls his hips, pressed as close as he can. He can feel the heat of Eduardo around him just as he can feel Eduardo’s hands holding him at the small of his back. The heat only burns hotter as Chris moves faster, Eduardo moving to meet him like earth rising from the sea. Outside New York continues to move, people walking the streets and cabs outnumbering any other kind of car. The bakeries and coffee shops are opening; those who worship the stock market as another form of God are arriving to see how Europe’s closing. Snow is falling and waves are crashing against Battery Park, and Chris couldn’t give a damn about it because to him there’s only Eduardo. Eduardo, filling his entire field of vision, his entire awareness, his entire mind, the heat between them growing hotter and hotter and hotter until there’s nothing left to burn, until they crash together and finally find their release.

Outside, morning comes; inside, Eduardo kisses Chris’s cheek and says “I love you too.”


	8. epilogue

_February, 2010_

 

Chris and Eduardo are in the middle of being absolutely destroyed by Preeta and Divya at beer pong when Dustin calls.

“Hello,” Chris says.

 _“Hi!”_ Dustin chirps in his ear. _“Got a sec?”_

Eduardo – who is drinking water – tries and fails to score. Preeta laughs at him, then shoves away Divya as he tries to kiss her neck.

“I’m concentrating!” She scolds him, but does allow him to hold her hand.

“Hang on,” Chris tells Dustin, then covers his phone. “Hey, Leslie.” Leslie, in the middle of talking to Jamal, looks up. “Will you sub in for me?” He asks, indicating the beer pong game.

“And be destroyed by Preeta?” Leslie asks, wrinkling her nose.

“I’ll do it.” Jamal says, crackling his knuckles. “I was the champion of my fraternity’s Beer Pong Olympics.”

Chris smiles at him. He had shamelessly recruited Jamal from his old company and then Jamal had helped him track Leslie down in what was a very memorable afternoon. Now Leslie is working as Lakshmi Ventures’ chief marketing officer and Jamal is a junior consultant.

“What’s up?” He says into the phone as he goes to lean against his office doorway.

 _“Your friend is on TV right now.”_ Dustin says, which isn’t helpful since Chris has a lot of friends that regularly go on TV. The President of the United States is a great example. _“She apparently single handedly arrested the head of the local Odessa Mafia.”_

“Amy.” Chris says. “Her name is Amy. I’m glad she got him – he had her shot, you know.”

 _“Doesn’t seem like it slowed her down.”_ Dustin says admiringly. _“She’s really scary. It’s kinda hot.”_

“She would eat you alive.”

 _“Why am I always attracted to people who would destroy me?”_ Dustin asks mournfully. _“Anyway, she arrested him and the police had a whole sting situation or whatever you call it and arrested the majority of his organization and stuff.”_

“I’m really glad.” Chris watches Jamal score against Divya and Preeta. “I’ve been worried about Amy.” He hasn't been, actually, not after the way she conquered the Wastes. He trusted her to be able to handle everything after that, including shutting down the organization that had killed Martinez and Koval. Besides, he knew Tan would be watching over her.

 _“You don’t have to worry anymore.”_ Dustin coughs. _“Sorry, I have a cold. Anyway, that’s only one of the reasons I called. The other reason is to tell you that Mark and I are getting a dog!”_

“Really?” Chris asks. “What kind of dog?”

_“Don’t know yet. I’ll be happy with any kind of dog but Mark wants to do a lot of research. You know how he is. He keeps waking me up at night to discuss obscure dog breeds.”_

Chris cocks his head. “So when the two of you come to visit, should I book one rooms or two?”

 _“What?!”_ Dustin squawks. _“We’re not – we haven’t –”_

“Are you sure?” Chris asks, grinning. “You moved in together. You do everything together. You run a company together. And now you’re getting a dog together. So…”

 _“Oh my god.”_ Dustin says in horror. Chris hears Mark ask _‘what’s wrong?’_ in the background. Of course he’s in the same room as Dustin. _“Mark.”_ Dustin says, clearly not talking to Chris. _“Mark, I think we’re dating.”_ There is a short pause. _“Chris, I need to call you back._ ” Dustin says, and hangs up on him.

“Why does this always happen to me?” Chris mutters, pocketing his phone. He looks up to see Eduardo looking at him and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Eduardo says, walking over and kissing him gently. “Jamal told me I’m too bad at beer pong to be allowed to play. Was that Dustin?”

“Yeah, he called to tell me he and Mark are getting a dog together.”

Eduardo raises an eyebrow. “Are they dating?”

“I asked Dustin that and he had what sounded like a revelation and got off the phone, so.” Chris shrugs. “Maybe?”

Eduardo smiles. “That’ll be good for them.” He touches Chris’s arm. “Do you want to come over to my place tonight?”

“Yeah.” Chris says. “You get to make waffles this time, though.”

“Hey!” Preeta calls. “Pizza’s here! Stop being disgustingly in love and come eat.”

“Only if you and Divya stop being so married!” Chris calls back.

“No deal!” Preeta holds up her left hand to show off her wedding band, new as of two weeks ago.

Eduardo is laughing. Chris loves all of Eduardo’s expression but he thinks he likes Eduardo laughing the best.

“C’mon,” Eduardo says, grabbing Chris’s hand like they’ve been doing this forever instead of only two and a half months. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long ass fic and i still couldn't fit everything i wanted in, so:  
> \- **face claims** : Tan's is [Samira Wiley](http://composuremagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/ComposureMag07_41.jpg), but in flashbacks she uses both Angie Cepeda and brunette Natalie Dormer. Leslie's is [Jane Levy](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/B6BUtOiIIAE3dhX.jpg); Jamal's is [Nathan Stewart-Jarrett.](http://www4.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Nathan+Stewart+Jarrett+Brit+Awards+2013+Red+NgJOsgS0Yqol.jpg) Andre...just imagine him as the biggest asshole you know tbh. Like Matt McGory in HTGAWM.  
> \- **Soul birds:** Chris's is a Eurasian Magpie: [x]. Tan's is a snowy owl: [[x]](http://www.creaseymahannaturepreserve.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/Snowy-Owl.jpg). Dustin's is a Bare Throated Bellbird: [[x]](http://mouthlikeawolf.tumblr.com/post/116099012994/libutron-bare-throated-bellbird-procnias). Father Forti's is a Bluejay: [[x]](http://mediad.publicbroadcasting.net/p/krcu/files/201511/BlueJay.jpg). If you've forgotten, Eduardo's is a Violet-Green Swallow: [[x].](https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/PHOTO/LARGE/vgsw_parsons2.jpg)  
>  \- yes, Christy is the angel of death.  
> \- yes, the pilgrim that Chris meets is actually God.  
> \- Chris died on September 15th, 1448  
> [visit me on tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


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